LIBRARY 

I     UNIVERSITY  OF 
VcAUFORNIA 


TALES  OF  THE  CITY  ROOM 


TALES  OF 
THE  CITY  ROOM 

By 
ELIZABETH  G.  JORDAN 


New  York 

Charles  Scribner's  Sons 
1898 


Copyright,  1898, 
BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS. 


LOAN  STACK 


©ntbemtg  $ress: 
JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE,  MASS.,  U.S.A. 


•3  ti 
- 


TO 

jfatfjer  anU  fffltotfjet 

WILLIAM  F.  AND  MARGARITA  G.  JORDAN 


829 


Note 

IN  stories  of  newspaper  life,  "local  color"  calls  for 
the  colloquially  technical  expressions  employed  in 
a  newspaper  office.  Since  they  are  not  many,  but  are 
constantly  used,  it  may  be  well  to  state  in  a  prefatory 
note  their  meanings,  in  order  to  avoid  putting  them 
between  quotation  marks  whenever  they  occur. 

In  newspaper  parlance,  a  reporter  takes  his  "assign 
ment"  from  the  "city  editor"  and  goes  out  to  work 
up  his  "  story."  The  "city  editor"  is  the  editor  in 
charge  of  city  news.  An  "  assignment "  is  the  sub 
ject  a  reporter  is  detailed  to  report  upon.  A  "story" 
is  almost  any  article  in  a  newspaper  except  an  editorial 
one.  If  the  other  papers  fail  to  get  a  "  story  "  which 
one  has  secured,  it  is  called  a  "beat"  or  " exclusive." 
If  the  facts  a  story  presents  exist  nowhere  else,  it  is 
called  a  "fake."  The  manuscript  of  the  story  is 
called  "copy,"  and  is  submitted  to  "copy-readers," 
whose  function  is  to  cut,  correct,  or  sometimes  re-write 
it.  The  place  where  the  city  editor  and  the  reporters 
have  their  desks  is  called  the  "city  room." 

The  editor-in-chief  holds  sway  over  the  entire  staff. 
He  represents  the  owner  of  the  newspaper,  and  directs 
its  editorial  policy.  Next  to  him  in  importance  is  the 
managing  editor,  whose  chief  executive  officers  are  the 
city  editor,  the  night  editor,  and  the  night  city  editor. 
The  Sunday  editor  is  responsible  for  the  special  fea 
tures  of  the  Sunday  edition,  and  under  him  are  numerous 
sub-editors  in  charge  of  various  departments. 


Contents 


PAGE 

RUTH  HERRICK'S  ASSIGNMENT     .     .  i 
THE    LOVE    AFFAIR    OF    CHESTER 
FIELD,  JR 33 

AT  THE  CLOSE  OF  THE  SECOND  DAY  57 

THE  WIFE  OF  THE  CANDIDATE  .     .  79 

MRS.  OGILVIE'S  LOCAL  COLOR     .     .  105 

FROM  THE  HAND  OF  DOLORITA  .     .  121 

THE  PASSING  OF  HOPE  ABBOTT  .     .  151 

A  POINT  OF  ETHICS 163 

A  ROMANCE  OF  THE  CITY  ROOM     .  185 

Miss  VAN  DYKE'S  BEST  STORY  .     .  209 


IX 


RUTH    HERRICK'S 
ASSIGNMENT 


Tales 
of  the  City  Room 

RUTH    HERRICK'S  ASSIGNMENT 

MISS  RUTH  HERRICK,  of  the 
«  New  York  Searchlight,"  had  been 
summoned  into  the  presence  of  the  managing 
editor.  It  was  without  special  alacrity  that 
she  obeyed  the  call.  Even  as  she  dropped 
her  pen  and  rose  from  her  desk  in  the  City 
Room,  she  seemed  to  hear  the  slow  drawl 
of  the  great  man's  voice,  uttering  the  words 
which  so  often  greeted  her  appearance  in  his 
office,  — 

"  Ah,  Miss  Herrick,  I  have  a  big  story  for 
you  —  a  very  big  story." 

Usually  she  felt  herself  responding  to  this 

with  a  pleasant  thrill  of  expectancy.     There 

was  keen  satisfaction  to  her  in  the  working 

up  of  a  "  big  story  "  ;  she  enjoyed  the  jour- 

3 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

neys  and  experiences  it  frequently  included, 
and  the  strange  characters  among  whom  it 
often  led  her.  Neither  the  experiences  nor 
the  characters  were  always  wholly  agreeable, 
but  she  never  complained.  Even  the  man 
aging  editor  acknowledged  this.  He  had 
been  heard  to  remark,  in  an  expansive  mo 
ment,  that  Ruth  Herrick  was  a  very  superior 
woman,  with  no  nerves  or  nonsense  about 
her.  The  gracious  opinion  was  promptly 
repeated  to  the  girl,  and  the  memory  of  it 
had  cheered  her  during  several  assignments 
in  which  nerves  and  a  woman  were  equally 
out  of  place. 

But  to-night  she  almost  rebelled.  Strangely 
enough,  she  was  not  ready  for  the  work  before 
her.  Her  thoughts  flew  from  the  bent  heads 
and  hurrying  pens  around  her  to  a  dining- 
room  up-town,  even  now  alight  and  flower- 
trimmed  for  the  little  supper  which  had  been 
planned  to  celebrate  one  of  her  greatest 
"beats."  "The  Searchlight"  of  that  morn 
ing  had  contained  her  story  ;  the  chief  and  her 
fellow-reporters  had  complimented  her ;  there 
were  pleasant  rumors  that  a  more  substantial 
evidence  of  appreciation  would  be  forthcoming. 


Ruth  Herrick's  Assignment 

All  day  she  had  idled,  enjoying  the  relaxation 
from  the  strain  of  the  past  week,  and  looking 
forward  to  that  dinner  for  various  and  per 
sonal  reasons.  The  society  editor,  who  had 
been  invited,  was  just  about  to  leave  the  office. 
She  saw  him  wave  the  last  page  of  his  copy 
triumphantly  in  the  air,  as  he  reached  for  his 
hat  with  the  other  hand.  He  was  to  make 
the  speech  of  the  evening,  and  he  had  prom 
ised  his  hostess  that  he  would  explain  to  the 
non-professional  guests  what  a  "  beat  "  really 
means  to  the  newspaper  and  reporter  that 
secure  it.  Earlier  in  the  day  he  had  sub 
mitted  his  definition  to  Miss  Herrick  for  her 
approval. 

"  A  big  beat,"  he  had  read  solemnly,  "  is 
an  important  exclusive  story.  If  it  appears 
in  your  newspaper,  it  is  the  greatest  journal 
istic  feat  of  the  year,  implying  the  possession 
of  superior  skill,  brains,  and  journalistic  enter 
prise  by  the  members  of  your  staff.  If  it  ap 
pears  in  the  other  fellow's  newspaper,  it  means 
that  some  idiot  has  accidentally  stumbled 
across  a  piece  of  news  which  does  n't  amount 
to  much  anyway,  and  which  he  has  garbled 
painfully  in  the  telling.  Your  newspaper 
5 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

gives  '  the  correct  facts '  the  second  day,  and 
calls  attention  to  the  c  fake  story '  published  by 
your  rival.  Then  you  privately  censure  your 
city  editor  and  reporters  for  letting  the  other 
newspaper  '  throw  them  down.'  Meantime, 
the  other  fellow,  who  published  the  story 
first,  is  patting  himself  and  his  reporters  on 
the  back,  'jollying'  his  city  and  managing 
editors,  and  crowing  over  his  achievement  on 
his  editorial  page.  The  reporter  who  brought 
in  the  story,  or  the  'tip,'  gets  some  praise, 
and  possibly  a  check.  His  position  on  the 
newspaper  is  secure  —  until  he  makes  his 
next  mistake.  Tersely  expressed,  a  '  beat ' 
is  a  story  which  only  one  newspaper  gets, 
and  which  all  the  other  newspapers  wanted. 
A  reporter  with  the  right  spirit  will  move 
heaven  and  earth  to  get  it  for  the  journal  he 
represents." 

u  I  've  just  prepared  a  graceful  tribute  to 
you,"  he  called  out  as  he  caught  her  eye. 
u  The  chief  says  you  're  one  of  the  most  re 
liable  members  of  the  staff,  can  always  be 
depended  upon,  and  all  that.  They  've  been 
talking  about  you  this  afternoon  in  the  edito 
rial  council." 

6 


Ruth  Herrick's  Assignment 

Miss  Herrick's  face  flushed  a  little  as  she 
returned  his  sunny  smile.  She  was  still 
blushing  slightly  as  she  entered  the  managing 
editor's  office. 

That  gentleman  sat  at  his  desk,  barricaded 
by  waste-paper  baskets  and  bundles  of  proofs. 
Small  and  grimy  boys  trailed  in  at  intervals, 
adding  to  the  interesting  collection  before 
him,  telegrams  and  cards  and  notes.  A 
habitual  furrow  between  his  eyes  was  deep 
ened,  —  for  the  occasion,  his  visitor  told  her 
self  in  the  bitterness  of  the  moment,  —  but 
the  effect  was  softened  by  a  really  charming 
smile.  It  was  said  that  "  The  Searchlight's  " 
presiding  genius  always  wore  that  smile  when 
he  was  giving  a  difficult  assignment  to  one  of 
his  staff.  It  spoke  of  hope  and  confidence, 
and,  incidentally,  of  the  futility  of  excuse  and 
objection.  The  young  reporter  had  seen  it 
before,  and  now  found  herself  fixing  a  fasci 
nated  but  hopeless  gaze  upon  it.  Her  ap 
prehensions  were  strengthened  by  the  efforts 
of  a  young  man  with  weak  eyes  and  a  cor 
rugated  brow,  who  sat  in  one  corner  diligently 
playing  on  a  typewriter.  He  stopped  long 
enough  to  recognize  the  young  woman,  and 
7 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

to  run  through  a  brief  but  expressive  panto 
mime  descriptive  of  the  work  before  her. 
This  habit  had  endeared  him  to  the  members 
of  the  staff. 

The  managing  editor  cleared  a  chair  by  an 
energetic  sweep  of  one  arm,  and,  still  smiling, 
looked  keenly  at  the  girl  through  his  half- 
closed  lids.  Then  he  asked  abruptly  :  "  How 
much  do  you  know  about  the  Brandow 
case  ? " 

Ruth  Herrick's  heart  leaped  suddenly. 
Was  he  going  to  give  her  that  famous  case 
after  all  ?  She  had  hinted  last  week  that  she 
wanted  it,  but  he  had  sent  Marlowe  instead. 
Marlowe,  she  had  noticed,  had  made  an  ig 
nominious  failure  of  it.  She  smiled  inwardly 
as  she  recalled  the  column  of  vague  conjec 
ture  and  suggestions  sent  in  the  day  before 
by  that  unhappy  young  man. 

"  I  know  that  Helen  Brandow  is  accused 
of  having  poisoned  her  husband,"  she  replied 
quietly,  "  and  that  the  evidence  against  her  is 
purely  circumstantial.  I  am  familiar  with  all 
the  theories  that  have  been  advanced,  includ 
ing  Mr.  Marlowe's  surmises  in  c  The  Search 
light  '  this  morning." 

8 


Ruth  Herrick's  Assignment 

The  young  man  at  the  typewriter  looked 
up  quickly  at  this,  but  the  managing  editor's 
face  was  impassive. 

"  She  has  refused  to  see  reporters  or  friends," 
continued  the  girl.  "  So  far  as  can  be  learned, 
she  has  not  spoken  a  word  since  her  arrest. 
Her  trial  will  begin  Monday,  and  she  is 
awaiting  it  in  the  prison  at  Fairview.  She  is 
young  and  handsome,  and  her  family  is  one 
of  the  best  in  the  State.  Public  sympathy  is 
wholly  with  her,  and  everybody  says  that  she 
will  be  acquitted." 

The  managing  editor's  smile  reappeared. 

"  Good,"  he  said  briskly.  "  I  want  you 
to  take  the  first  train  to  Fairview  and  inter 
view  that  woman  to-morrow  morning." 

"  I  'm  almost  positive  she  won't  talk," 
murmured  Miss  Herrick,  doubtfully;  but 
even  as  she  spoke  the  last  spark  of  rebel 
lion  died  out,  and  she  was  planning  ways 
and  means. 

"  It  is  your  business  to  make  her  talk," 
was  the  encouraging  response.  "  Interview 
her  and  write  the  best  story  you  ever  wrote 
in  your  life.  Every  one  else  has  failed.  If 
you  are  ambitious,  here  is  your  chance  to 
9 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

distinguish  yourself.  I  will  have  a  boy  at 
the  station  with  letters  which  may  help  you. 
Good-night." 

Eighteen  hours  later  she  sat  in  the  Fair- 
view  prison.  It  was  easy  enough  to  get 
there.  The  warden  unbent  marvellously 
under  the  influence  of  a  strong  personal 
letter  and  Miss  Herrick's  face.  The  girl 
felt  quite  like  a  distinguished  guest  as  the 
stern  old  fellow  spoke  of  stories  of  hers 
which  he  had  read,  and  newspaper  cuts  of 
her  which  he  had  seen,  "  which,"  he  added 
kindly,  "  don't  look  much  like  you."  Then 
he  was  led  to  speak  of  Mrs.  Brandow,  to 
whom  he  and  his  wife  had  become  much 
attached  during  the  long  months  of  her 
imprisonment.  She  had  been  restless  and 
sleepless  of  late,  and  had  n't  eaten  much. 
He  mentioned  this  last  circumstance  with  a 
feeling  he  had  not  shown  before.  Evidently 
the  sufferings  of  one  who  could  not  eat 
came  keenly  home  to  him.  When  his  wife 
entered  the  room,  it  was  with  the  keys  in 
her  hand,  and  the  gratifying  announcement 
that  Mrs.  Brandow  would  receive  the  caller 
for  a  few  moments.  For  this  Miss  Her- 
10 


Ruth  Herrick's  Assignment 

rick  mentally  thanked  the  prisoner's  lawyer, 
whose  faith  in  the  ability  of  his  client  to 
rebuff  reporters  had  been  artlessly  displayed 
during  her  call  on  him  two  hours  before. 

When  the  newspaper  woman  passed 
through  the  door  of  the  cell,  her  eyes, 
unaccustomed  to  the  semi-gloom,  saw  but 
dimly  the  outline  of  a  slender,  black-robed 
figure,  sitting  at  a  small,  plain  table.  The 
cell  was  larger  than  those  in  city  prisons, 
and  some  effort  had  been  made  to  render 
it  habitable.  There  was  a  thick  rug  be 
fore  the  small  iron  bed,  virginal  in  its  white 
coverings.  A  heavy  cashmere  shawl  oppo 
site  it  concealed  the  whitewashed  walls. 
The  hand  which  put  it  there  had  sought 
to  cover  all  trace  of  stone  and  iron  by 
friendly  draperies,  but  Mrs.  Brandow  would 
not  have  it  so.  A  small  dressing-table  held 
a  number  of  silver-backed  toilet  articles, 
looking  strangely  out  of  place  amid  their 
grim  surroundings.  The  light  in  the  cell 
came  through  a  small  window  and  the 
barred  door  leading  from  the  corridor,  which 
was  clean  and  damp,  and  glaringly  white. 

The  reporter  hesitated  an  instant,  and 
ii 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

then  went  quickly  forward.  The  face  which 
turned  toward  her  was  not  the  kind  of  face 
she  expected  to  see.  Newspaper  men  had 
been  gushing  in  their  descriptions  of  the 
famous  prisoner,  possibly  because  their  im 
aginations  were  stimulated  by  the  fact  that 
many  of  them  had  never  seen  her.  Helen 
Brandow  was  not  really  beautiful  ;  Miss 
Herrick  was  quick  to  recognize  that  as  the 
other  woman  advanced  to  meet  her.  She 
made  a  hasty  mental  note  of  the  healthily 
pale  complexion,  the  dark,  wavy  hair,  parted 
in  the  centre,  the  heavy  eyebrows,  the  too 
firmly  closed  lips,  and  the  regal  carriage  of 
head  and  body.  But  it  was  the  prisoner's 
eyes  at  which  she  looked  longest,  and  into 
which  she  found  herself  looking  again  and 
again  during  the  interview  that  followed. 
They  were  brown,  —  a  tawny  brown  with 
yellow  lights,  but  wholly  expressionless. 
They  looked  into  Ruth  Herrick' s  now, 
coldly,  and  with  no  reflection  of  the  half- 
smile  which  rested  on  the  prisoner's  lips  as 
she  motioned  toward  the  chair  she  had  just 
left,  and  seated  herself  on  the  bed. 

"I  feel  like  an  intruder,  as  I  always  do 
12 


Ruth  Herrick's  Assignment 

when  I  am  making  these  unsolicited  visits," 
said  the  reporter.  "  I  wish  I  could  tell  you 
how  I  appreciate  your  kindness  in  receiving 
me  at  all."  She  was  leaning  back  a  little 
in  her  chair,  and  her  strong,  young  face 
and  fair  hair  were  in  relief  against  the  rich 
background  of  the  drapery  on  the  wall. 
In  one  quick  glance  her  gray  eyes  had  taken 
in  every  detail  of  the  prisoner's  surroundings. 
She  looked  at  the  prisoner  again,  with  some 
thing  very  frank  and  womanly  in  the  look. 

"  I    was    not  moved  by  a  purely  philan 
thropic  spirit,"  responded  Mrs.  Brandow. 

She  contemplated  her  visitor  with  some 
thing  akin  to  interest,  but  there  was  a 
suggestion  of  irony  in  her  contralto  voice. 
"  Mr.  Van  Dyke  assures  me  that  you  will 
not  misrepresent  me  if  I  have  anything  to 
say,"  she  continued ;  "  but  I  have  nothing 
to  say.  I  asked  you  in  to  tell  you  so,  and  to 
thank  you  for  the  roses,  and  for  your  note, 
both  of  which  pleased  me.  The  letter  of 
introduction  you  bring  convinces  me  that  I 
am  safe  in  doing  this,  and  that  you  will  not 
go  away  and  picture  me  as  tearing  my  hair 
and  deluging  my  pillow  with  tears.  You 
13 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

will  observe  that  my  hair  is  in  good  order, 
and  that  the  pillow  is  quite  dry." 

"  I  cannot  fancy  you  less  than  composed 
in  any  circumstances,"  said  her  visitor,  who 
found  her  own  composure  returning  to  her, 
accompanied  by  a  strong  sense  of  surprise 
and  interest  in  the  personality  of  the  woman 
before  her.  This  was  not  the  Helen  Bran- 
dow  of  the  press,  but  an  infinitely  more  in 
teresting  character,  who  should  be  given  to 
the  public,  through  "  The  Searchlight,"  in  a 
pen-picture  to  be  long  remembered.  Miss 
Herrick's  spirits  mounted  high  at  the  thought. 

"  I  am  glad  you  like  the  roses,"  she 
added.  "  I  did  not  send  them  to  win  a 
welcome,  but  because  a  nice  old  woman 
in  the  village  gave  them  to  me  as  I  was 
coming  here  this  morning.  She  was  work 
ing  among  them,  and  the  sight  was  so  pretty 
I  could  n't  help  stopping.  It  made  me 
think  of  my  own  home,  down  South.  The 
roses  are  the  common  or  garden  variety, 
you  see,  but  they  have  the  delicious,  spicy 
fragrance  which  seems  to  belong  only  to 
the  roses  in  old-fashioned  gardens.  The 
owner  of  these  succumbed  to  my  youthful 
14 


Ruth  Herrick's  Assignment 

charms,  and  I  brought  away  her  best.  I 
felt  guilty,  but  not  guilty  enough  to  refuse 
them.  It  eased  my  conscience  to  leave 
them  here  for  you." 

Mrs.  Brandow  regarded  her  with  a  faint 
smile.  "  It  had  not  occurred  to  me  that  the 
old  women  in  this  village  spend  their  time 
in  the  peaceful  pursuit  of  rose-growing,"  she 
remarked.  u  When  I  have  been  escorted 
back  and  forth  they  have  been  suspended  over 
picket-fences  watching  me  go  by.  I  never 
saw  any  roses  or  any  redeeming  traits  in  the 
inhabitants." 

"  Perhaps  you  were  too  preoccupied  to 
notice  them.  Are  n't  you  becoming  a  little 
morbid  under  this  trouble  ?  " 

The  newspaper  woman  was  acutely  con 
scious  of  her  daring  as  she  spoke,  but  the 
woman  before  her  was  plainly  not  to  be  ap 
proached  by  ordinary  methods.  She  showed 
this  still  more  clearly  in  her  reply. 

"  Perhaps.  I  have  had  no  desire  for  self- 
analysis  of  late.  I  used  to  tear  myself  up  by 
the  roots  to  watch  my  own  growth,  but  the 
process  was  not  pleasant.  I  am  now  trying 
to  confine  my  attention  to  the  things  outside 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

of  me.  It  is  less  interesting ;  occasionally  it 
wearies  me.  And  I  always  abuse  people  and 
institutions  when  I  am  weary." 

If  there  was  a  personal  application  in  this, 
Miss  Herrick  passed  it  by  with  the  smiling 
calmness  of  the  trained  reporter.  "  You  are 
quite  right,"  she  said  cheerfully.  "  But  it 
would  be  infinitely  more  interesting  to  talk 
about  you  than  about  anything  else.  I  should 
think  you  would  be  forced  to  turn  your  eyes 
inward  occasionally,  as  a  refreshing  change 
from  the  things  which  weary  you." 

"  The  inner  view  is  no  longer  pleasant." 

Mrs.  Brandow's  smile,  as  she  spoke,  was 
not  particularly  pleasant,  either.  The  re 
porter's  thoughts  flew  suddenly  to  a  certain 
Mary  Bird,  who  had  lost  her  reason  under 
peculiarly  depressing  circumstances,  which 
Miss  Herrick  had  been  unfortunate  enough  to 
witness.  Mary  had  smiled  on  the  newspaper 
woman  once  or  twice,  and  the  latter,  though 
not  imaginative,  remembered  the  smiles  too 
vividly  for  her  own  comfort.  When  the 
prisoner  spoke  again,  however,  the  resem 
blance,  if  there  had  been  one,  vanished. 

"  I  have  often  felt  that  I  should  go  mad  in 
16 


Ruth  Herrick's  Assignment 

this  place,"  she  said  suddenly,  and  with  a 
complete  change  of  tone.  There  was  almost 
an  apology  in  her  voice  and  manner.  "  But 
I  am  quite  sane,"  she  added,  "  and  it  is  a 
pleasure  to  me  to  have  you  here,  and  to  talk 
to  you.  I  had  not  realized,  until  you  came, 
how  much  I  needed  something  to  break  in 
upon  this  hideous  routine,  and  change  the 
current  of  my  thoughts.  For  one  year  my 
mind  has  fed  upon  itself.  I  have  spoken  at 
the  rarest  intervals,  and  then  only  to  the  war 
den  and  his  wife.  Now  I  suddenly  find 
myself  struggling  with  a  desire  to  become 
garrulous,  to  pour  out  my  soul  to  you,  as  it 
were.  I  could  almost  '  tell  you  the  story  of 
my  life.'  All  this  would  be  an  admirable 
illustration  of  the  limitations  of  a  woman's 
capacity  for  silence,  —  but  it  is  n't  amusing. 
It  shows  me  that  I  am  not  quite  myself;  I 
am  nervous  and  not  wholly  under  my  own 
control." 

"  I  wish  you  would  talk  to  me,"  said  the 
reporter,  earnestly.  "Use  me  as  a  safety- 
valve.  Tell  me  the  story  of  your  life,  as  you 
say.  It  would  interest  me,  and  might  help 
you.  Or  try  to  imagine  that  I  am  an  old 
2  17 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

friend,  who  wants  to  know  of  your  life 
here." 

"  If  you  were,  I  think  you  would  be  pained 
by  the  recital.  And,  besides,  if  you  were, 
you  would  not  be  here.  Even  my  wildest 
fancies  never  take  the  form  of  yearnings  for 
old  friends ;  their  society  would  be  too  de 
pressing  in  the  circumstances.  No,  I  am 
glad  you  are  a  stranger,  with  a  certain  mag 
netism  about  you  which  interests  me,  and 
fills  me  with  a  silly  desire  to  know  what  you 
think  of  me,  and  whether  you  fear  me  or 
believe  in  me." 

"  I  am  sure  I  could  not  bear  trouble  with 
more  philosophy  than  that  you  show,"  said 
the  girl,  evasively.  She  felt  a  strange  reluc 
tance  to  analyze  her  own  impressions,  but 
she  watched  the  development  of  the  other's 
peculiar  mood  with  an  odd  mingling  of 
womanly  sympathy  and  professional  interest. 

"  I  am  not  so  philosophic  as  I  may  seem. 
I  have  given  myself  up  to  the  horror  of  this 
place,  until,  as  I  said,  it  has  almost  unnerved 
me.  If  I  were  myself,  I  should  not  be  sitting 
here,  talking  almost  confidentially  to  you  — 
a  stranger.  Why  should  the  presence  and 
18 


Ruth  Herrick's  Assignment 

sympathy  of  another  human  being  affect  me, 
after  what  I  have  suffered  and  endured  ?  " 

"  You  have  never  been  a  happy  woman  ?  " 

The  reporter  looked  thoughtfully  at  the 
rose  she  held  in  her  hand  as  she  spoke,  and 
pulled  off  its  petals,  one  by  one. 

"  For  five  years  I  have  been  the  most  mis 
erable  woman  on  earth." 

The  expression  of  the  prisoner's  face  had 
changed.  The  smile  was  gone ;  the  brown 
eyes  looked  at  the  fallen  petals  in  the  other's 
lap,  with  the  dreaminess  of  retrospection  in 
their  glance. 

u  Five  years  ago  I  married,"  she  went  on, 
almost  to  herself.  "  Since  then  I  have  known 
the  depths  of  human  misery  and  degradation. 
Within  a  week  of  my  marriage  I  knew  ex 
actly  what  I  had  done,  —  I  had  tied  myself 
for  life  to  the  most  consummate  scoundrel  in 
existence.  He  spent  his  time  devising  ways 
of  persecuting  and  humiliating  me,  and  his 
efforts  were  eminently  successful.  He  made 
me  what  I  am." 

"  You  should  have  separated  from  him." 

"Yes,  but  that  was  impossible.  My 
mother,  who  is  dependent  on  me,  and  whom 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

I  love  as  I  never  loved  any  one  else,  lived  with 
us.  He  was  sending  my  little  sister  to  school. 
It  pleased  him  to  make  a  parade  of  what  he 
was  doing  for  my  people.  And  his  mother 
begged  me  to  bear  with  him,  to  give  him  an 
other  chance,  as  he  would  go  headlong  to 
destruction  if  cast  off  entirely.  I  did  bear 
with  him,  —  I  gave  him  every  chance,  and 
he  —  he—  " 

The  woman's  voice  broke.  The  listener 
had  felt  her  face  flush  as  the  other's  words 
came  to  her,  and  now,  on  a  sudden  impulse, 
she  took  the  prisoner's  hand.  The  white 
ringers  closed  suddenly  upon  her  own  with 
such  force  that  the  stone  in  a  ring  she  wore 
sank  into  the  flesh.  But  the  act  was  in 
voluntary,  for  the  hand  was  dropped  again 
with  no  indication  on  Mrs.  Brandow's  face 
that  it  had  been  offered  and  accepted. 

"  He  was  like  an  insane  man,"  continued 
the  prisoner,  her  low  voice  gathering  strength 
and  force  as  she  went  on.  "  He  brought 
persons  to  the  house  whom  no  respectable 
house  should  shelter.  He  forced  me  to  re 
ceive  them  and  humiliated  me  before  them. 
I  bear  to-day  the  marks  of  his  violence.  I 
20 


Ruth  Herrick's  Assignment 

rose  in  the  morning  wondering  what  new 
and  devilish  torture  awaited  me,  and  I  lay 
quaking  in  my  bed  at  night  knowing  that  I 
would  soon  hear  him  kicking  at  my  door.  I 
think  I  was  hardly  myself  during  that  time, 
but  I  endured  all  while  it  was  I  alone  who  had 
to  suffer.  But  one  night  he  raised  his  hand 
to  my  old  mother,  when  she  was  trying  to 
protect  me  from  his  brutality,  and  struck  her 
down.  That  night  I  killed  him." 

For  an  instant  Ruth  Herrick's  heart  stopped 
beating,  but  she  sat  motionless,  watching  the 
woman  opposite  her.  There  was  no  change 
in  her  calm  face.  Mrs.  Brandow  raised  her 
eyes  to  it  for  a  moment  and  dropped  them 
again. 

"I  killed  him,"  she  repeated  dully.  "I 
have  said  it  over  to  myself  a  good  many 
times  in  the  awful  days  and  nights  I  have 
spent  in  this  place.  I  have  even  said  it 
it  aloud  to  hear  how  it  would  sound,  but  it 
did  n't  relieve  me  as  it  does  now.  And  you 
—  you  look  as  if  I  were  talking  about  an 
insect.  I  felt  that  way  at  first.  It  did  n't 
seem  to  me  that  he  was  a  human  being,  and 
I  killed  him  as  I  would  have  killed  a  poison- 
21 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

ous  thing  that  attacked  me.  I  gave  him 
poison  which  I  had  had  for  years  and  which 
was  said  to  leave  no  trace.  I  had  intended 
to  take  it  myself  if  the  worst  came  to  the 
worst ;  I  had  never  dreamed  of  giving  it  to 
him.  But  I  did.  It  was  all  done  in  a 
minute,  and  then  —  my  God  !  "  she  broke  out 
suddenly.  "  Can  you  realize  what  my  life 
has  been  since  ?  Can  you  imagine  the  hor 
rors  of  my  nights  here,  filled  with  thoughts 
of  him  mouldering  in  his  grave,  and  put  there 
by  me  ?  When  I  have  fancied  my  reason 
leaving  me  I  have  almost  hoped  it  would  go. 
But  I  am  sane  yet,  that  I  may  realize  what 
and  where  I  am,  and  suffer  as  I  had  never 
dreamed  a  human  creature  could  suffer  and 
live.  Can't  you  say  something  ?  Or  have  I 
gone  mad  at  last,  and  am  I  sitting  here  gib 
bering  to  the  walls  ?  Is  it  so  common  a 
thing  for  you  to  have  murderesses  —  ? " 

"  Does  your  mother  know  ? "  asked  the 
reporter,  quietly.  They  were  the  first  words 
she  had  spoken,  and  she  realized  fully  their 
possible  effect. 

The  other  woman's  form  relaxed.  She 
fell  on  her  knees,  with  her  head  buried  in  the 
22 


Ruth  Herrick' s  Assignment 

white  covering  of  the  little  iron  bed.  The 
first  tears  she  had  shed  gushed  from  her  eyes. 
Her  figure  rocked  as  she  sobbed  and  moaned. 

"  No,  no  !  "  she  said  brokenly.  "  She  be 
lieves  in  me  —  she  does  not  suspect." 

The  newspaper  woman  dropped  her  elbows 
on  the  table  before  her,  buried  her  chin  in  her 
hands,  and  thought  it  over.  How  it  had  all 
come  about  she  could  hardly  realize.  She 
glanced  again  at  the  crouching  figure  on  the 
floor  and  wondered  vaguely  why  it  had  been 
given  to  her  to  watch  the  awful  travail  of 
this  woman's  soul.  Something  of  the  story 
the  public  understood.  It  had  furnished  the 
motive  for  the  crime.  It  was  whispered  that 
the  death  of  Jack  Brandow  had  much  im 
proved  that  part  of  the  country  where  he  had 
lived  and  moved.  He  had  goaded  this  woman 
to  madness.  The  revolt,  the  temptation,  and 
the  opportunity  had  presented  themselves 
simultaneously,  and  she  had  fallen  as  stronger 
women  might  have  fallen,  Miss  Herrick 
thought,  had  they  been  so  tempted.  And 
then  had  come  the  awakening,  the  desolation, 
the  despair. 

Ruth  Herrick  was  usually  a  cool,  unemo- 
23 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

tional  young  person,  but  she  was  profoundly 
moved  now.  Many  thoughts  crowded  into 
her  mind.  She  recalled  what  she  had  read 
of  Helen  Brandow's  past  life,  —  the  good 
she  had  done  as  a  girl  at  school,  her  adora 
tion  of  her  mother,  the  hundreds  of  noble 
men  and  women  who  were  her  friends,  and 
whose  faith  in  her  innocence  was  so  stead 
fast.  They  were  moving  heaven  and  earth 
to  save  her  now,  and  when  their  success 
had  seemed  assured  she  had  ruined  all  by 
this  hour's  talk  which  was  just  ended. 

Ruth  Herrick  almost  groaned  as  the  situa 
tion  unrolled  itself  before  her.  It  was  some 
thing  she  had  to  face.  She  knew  now  that 
she  had  suspected  almost  from  the  first  what 
the  climax  might  be,  and  had  resolutely  put 
the  thought  from  her.  And  now  she  had  the 
"  biggest  beat  "  of  the  year  !  Already  she 
could  see  the  commotion  in  the  managing 
editor's  office  when  the  news  came  in.  He 
would  be  startled  out  of  his  usual  calm.  He 
had  spoken  of  her  chance  to  distinguish  her 
self,  but  even  he  had  asked  but  an  interview. 
In  his  wildest  imaginings  he  had  not  dreamed 
of  a  confession.  She  knew  that.  But  she 
24 


Ruth  Herrick's  Assignment 

had  it.  If  anything  but  the  life  of  a  human 
being  had  been  at  stake,  how  proudly  and 
gladly  she  would  have  gone  to  him,  and 
how  hard  she  would  have  tried  to  write  the 
best  story  of  her  life,  as  he  had  ordered. 
But  —  this  other  woman  at  her  feet.  Some 
thing  within  the  reporter  asserted  itself  as 
counsel  for  her  and  pleaded  and  would  not 
down.  Ruth  Herrick's  voice  seemed  to  her 
to  come  from  a  long  distance  when  she  at 
last  spoke. 

u  Do  you  realize  what  all  this  means  to 
you  ?  Had  you  forgotten  that  you  were 
talking  to  a  reporter  ?  " 

The  woman  on  the  floor  sat  up  and  raised 
her  face  to  the  speaker's.  It  was  deathly 
pale,  but  calm,  and  the  mouth  was  firm. 
"  I  know,"  she  half  whispered.  "  I  forgot. 
But  it  is  just  as  well.  I  could  not  have 
endured  it  any  longer.  It  was  a  great  re 
lief,  and  I  am  ready  for  —  the  end." 

"  But  if  you  had  not  spoken  you  would 

probably  be  acquitted.     Do  you  know  that  ?  " 

"  It  does  n't  matter,"    repeated  the  other, 

wearily.     "  If  I  had  not  told  you,  I  should 

probably  have  told  the  warden.     My  nerves 

25 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

were  at  the  highest  tension,  and  you  were 
present  when  they  snapped.  That's  all. 
I  am  quite  willing  to  bear  the  consequences 
of  what  I  have  done." 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence  in  the 
cell.  The  reporter  looked  through  the  barred 
door,  out  into  the  whitewashed  corridor  where 
a  narrow  shaft  of  sunlight  fell.  To  her  ex 
cited  imagination  there  was  something  pro 
phetic  in  the  sight.  Far  down  at  the  end 
of  the  hall,  a  scrub-woman  hummed  a  street 
air  as  she  worked.  Near  her  loitered  the 
only  guard  the  little  prison  afforded.  The 
whole  life  of  Helen  Brandow  —  if,  indeed, 
she  were  allowed  to  live  at  all  —  would  be 
passed  in  some  such  place  as  this  if  "  The 
Searchlight  "  published  that  story.  If  it  did 
not  —  Ruth  Herrick  set  her  teeth,  and 
stared  unseeingly  at  the  opposite  wall.  If 
it  did  not,  it  would  be  because  she  with 
held  the  news,  to  which,  by  every  claim  of 
loyalty,  her  newspaper  was  entitled.  She 
withhold  it! — she,  "one  of  the  most  re 
liable  members  of  the  staff! "  Was  it 
not  only  last  night  the  chief  had  said  so  ? 
Something  hot  and  wet  filled  her  eyes. 
26 


Ruth  Herrick's  Assignment 

She,  the  practical  ;  she,  the  loyal  j  she  was 
going  to  allow  her  paper  to  be  u  thrown 
down "  on  the  biggest  story  of  the  year ! 
For,  above  it  all,  a  little  refrain  sang  in  her 
ears,  and  it  was  "One — more — chance, 
—  one  —  more  —  chance,  —  one  —  more  — 
chance."  The  scrub-woman  seemed  to  be 
singing  it,  too,  and  it  kept  time  with  the 
clang  of  an  anvil  in  a  shop  near  by.  Ruth 
Herrick  dashed  the  tears  from  her  eyes,  and 
swallowed  a  lump  that  rose  in  her  throat. 
When  she  spoke  again  there  was  no  trace 
in  voice  or  manner  of  the  mental  struggle 
through  which  she  had  passed. 

"  I  am  going  to  forget  this  interview," 
she  said.  "  I  am  going  to  let  you  have  the 
chance  which  a  fair  trial  will  give  you.  You 
could  not  talk  to  a  jury  as  you  have  talked 
to  me,  but  it  will  not  be  necessary.  You 
will  probably  be  acquitted.  Everybody  says 
so,  and  a  great  many  people  believe  in  you. 
And  then  you  will  begin  life  again.  No  one 
shall  know  that  I  have  talked  to  you,  and 
you  must  promise  me  that  you  will  talk  to  no 
one  else.  Do  not  see  another  reporter." 

She  smiled  ironically  at  this  stipulation  of 
27 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

her  own.  "He  might  be  more  loyal  than 
I,"  she  thought. 

"  I  will  do  just  as  you  say,"  said  the  other 
woman.  She  did  not  understand  the  sacri 
fice,  but  she  knew  what  the  decision  meant 
to  her.  She  dipped  a  towel  in  water  and 
bathed  her  face  and  eyes.  Then  she  took 
the  newspaper  woman's  hands  in  her  own 
and  kissed  them  almost  shyly. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said.  "Thank  you 
very  much." 

The  guard,  who  had  been  pacing  the  cor 
ridor,  turned  the  key  noisily  in  the  lock,  and 
the  reporter  passed  out.  She  went  back  to 
whisper  one  more  warning.  "  Do  not  let 
them  put  you  on  the  stand." 

She  heard  the  door  clang,  and  the  key 
turn  again,  as  she  walked  toward  the  warden's 
office. 

"  That 's  good,"  she  murmured,  in  grim 
self-abasement.  "  In  another  moment  I 
should  probably  have  been  helping  her  through 
the  window." 

"  So  Mrs.  Brandow  has  been  acquitted," 
said  the   managing  editor  of  "  The  Search- 
28 


Ruth  Herrick's   Assignment 

light "  to  his  secretary,  as  the  news  came  in 
two  weeks  later.  "  And  the  whole  country 
is  shedding  tears  of  joy  over  her,  and  they're 
having  bonfires  to-night  up  in  Fairview.  I 
believe  she 's  guilty ;  but  a  pretty  woman 
who  can  hold  her  tongue  will  escape  the 
consequences  of  almost  any  crime.  Strange 
how  Miss  Herrick  failed  on  that  case ;  she 
felt  it,  too.  Has  been  working  day  and 
night  ever  since,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 
But,  after  all,  you  can't  depend  on  a  woman 
in  this  business." 

The    managing    editor    was    more    nearly 
right  than  he  knew. 


29 


THE    LOVE   AFFAIR   OF 
CHESTERFIELD,  JR. 


THE   LOVE   AFFAIR   OF 
CHESTERFIELD,   JR. 

EVERYBODY  in  "The  Searchlight" 
editorial  rooms  felt  that  James  Vance 
Cuthbertson  was  a  distinct  acquisition  to  the 
working  force,  but  perhaps  no  one  realized 
this  quite  so  keenly  as  James  Vance  himself. 
In  appearance  he  was  not  impressive.  He 
was  small  for  his  age,  and  his  age  was  but 
twelve.  His  light  hair  clung  to  his  head  in 
such  relentlessly  tight  little  curls  that  his  fa 
cetious  associates  pointed  to  this  strain  on 
his  scalp  as  the  explanation  of  the  frequent 
headaches  from  which  he  suffered.  His  round 
young  face  bore  several  large  and  obtrusive 
freckles,  and  his  clothes  were  palpably  a  leg 
acy  from  some  one  of  more  stalwart  frame 
than  himself.  But  his  wide-open  blue  eyes 
were  clear  and  honest,  and  the  charm  of  his 
manner  was  recognized  and  commented  upon 
even  by  the  embittered  visitors  who  awaited 
the  editor's  pleasure  in  the  small  anteroom 
over  which  James  held  sway. 
3  33 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

At  the  little  desk  in  this  room  the  boy  pre 
sided  with  a  dignity  far  beyond  his  years. 
He  listened  with  polite  interest  to  the  almost 
endless  tales  of  woe  poured  into  his  ears  by 
the  motley  throng  of  men  and  women  with 
whom  he  came  in  contact.  He  made  copious 
notes  of  alleged  u  news  tips  "  brought  in  by 
excited  citizens,  and  saw  to  it  that  these  notes 
did  not  obstruct  the  desk  of  the  city  editor. 
With  unfailing  courtesy  he  stood  between  the 
staff  and  the  bores  that  besieged  the  citadel 
wherein  they  worked.  With  genuine  sym 
pathy  he  received  the  subjects  of  u  The 
Searchlight's "  various  charity  funds  and 
turned  them  over  to  the  person  who  had  such 
matters  in  charge.  It  was  Colonel  Everson, 
one  of  the  leading  editorial  writers,  who 
dubbed  him  "Chesterfield,  Jr.,"  and  the 
name  was  so  appropriate  that  the  entire  staff 
adopted  it  on  the  instant  and  rechristened 
the  boy  with  a  bottle  of  ginger-ale  and 
appropriate  accessories. 

From  the  anteroom  in  which  young  Ches 
terfield  sat,  doors  led  to  the  respective  rooms 
of  the  managing  editor,  the  city  editor,  the 
Sunday  editor,  and  the  editor  of  the  humorous 
34 


The  Love  Affair  of  Chesterfield,  Jr. 

supplement.  During  the  warm  days  of  sum 
mer  these  doors  were  usually  open,  the  slight 
figure  of  the  youthful  sentinel  being  regarded 
as  a  wholly  sufficient  barrier  between  visitors 
and  their  editorial  goal.  From  his  post  the 
boy  could  see  the  members  of  the  staff  at 
their  respective  desks,  as  well  as  the  easels  at 
which  the  artists  on  the  Sunday  edition 
worked  steadily.  Directly  in  line  with  his 
glance  was  the  easel  of  Miss  Frances  Neville, 
one  of  the  cleverest  artists  on  "  The  Search 
light."  That  young  woman  could  be  seen 
toiling  industriously  at  it  from  ten  o'clock  in 
the  morning  until  six  o'clock  at  night. 

Chesterfield  approved  of  her  from  the  mo 
ment  he  saw  her.  On  that  memorable  occa 
sion  she  had  beamed  on  the  new  boy  with 
one  of  the  gay  and  debonnaire  smiles  which  it 
was  her  wont  to  distribute  impartially  along 
her  daily  path.  It  had  materially  aided  the 
youth  to  bear  with  dignity  the  mild  "  hazing  " 
to  which  he  was  subjected  by  the  other  boys 
in  the  office  during  his  first  week. 

Being  wise  beyond  his  years,  Chesterfield 
mentioned  to  no  one  his  admiration  for  "  The 
Searchlight's"  leading  woman  artist.  He 
35 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

merely  changed  his  theories  regarding  the 
ideal  of  feminine  beauty,  reconstructing  them 
on  the  lines  of  the  perfect  realization  daily 
presented  to  him.  Thus,  his  sister,  a  "  sales 
lady  "  in  a  Sixth  Avenue  shop,  was  surprised 
by  an  urgent  request  from  her  brother  to 
wear  her  hair  "  parted  down  the  middle  and 
slicked  on  the  sides,"  this  being  Chesterfield's 
description  of  Miss  Neville's  severely  simple 
coiffure.  His  mother,  a  stout  and  matronly 
laundress  of  middle  age,  was  startled  by  her 
precocious  son's  feverish  desire  to  have  her 
wear  tailor-made  gowns  henceforth.  He 
even  brought  her  an  assortment  of  collars  and 
cuffs  and  a  ready-made  tie  as  a  step  in  this 
direction,  and  was  mildly  surprised  when  the 
result  was  not  an  accurate  copy  of  the  grace 
ful  and  elegant  figure  in  "  The  Searchlight " 
office.  A  few  rude  jests  at  his  expense 
checked  Chesterfield's  home  missionary  work, 
but  in  the  office  his  eyes  lingered  more  fondly 
than  ever  on  the  unconscious  object  of  his 
soul's  content.  He  attended  to  Miss  Neville's 
few  needs  with  a  celerity  that  would  have 
been  startling  in  any  other  than  Chesterfield. 
He  listened  with  greedy  ears  to  the  praises  of 

36 


The  Love  Affair  of  Chesterfield,  Jr. 

her  work  which  found  daily  voice  in  u  The 
Searchlight"  editorial  rooms.  He  experi 
enced  his  greatest  pleasure  in  turning  his 
artless  gaze  upon  her  as  he  sat  at  his  desk 
during  occasional  lulls  in  his  professional 
duties.  He  read  omnivorously  during  these 
restful  intervals,  and  it  was  an  interesting  fact 
that  the  heroine  was  always  the  same  —  a  tall 
and  graceful  young  woman,  in  severely  simple 
tailor-made  attire,  with  dark  brown  hair  and 
with  eyes  that  regarded  even  small  office-boys 
with  kindly  interest.  The  authors  in  vain  ob 
truded  their  unworthier  types  :  to  Chesterfield 
there  was  but  one  Heroine  possible  in  fiction. 
From  passive  to  active  adoration  was  but 
a  tiny  step.  He  spent  hours  in  writing  notes 
to  his  inamorata,  in  which  he  poured  out  his 
youthful  heart  in  misspelled  words  and  mar 
vellous  English.  He  found  much  satisfaction 
in  this,  though  he  invariably  destroyed  the 
notes  as  soon  as  they  were  written.  Then 
he  conceived  the  plan  of  writing  non-com 
mittal  messages  on  office  business,  and  this 
was  happiness  of  a  higher  order.  It  put  him 
and  the  Only  One  in  quasi-intimate  relations. 
Even  if  he  said  nothing  but  u  The  sitty  editur 
37 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

would  like  to  see  you  for  a  minit,"  could  he 
not  sign  the  note  "  Yours  fathfuly,  James 
Vance  Cuthbertson "  ?  He  did  this  with 
unction,  and  Miss  Neville  read  and  laughed 
and  forgot  in  the  one  moment. 

Emboldened  by  the  success  of  these  efforts, 
Chesterfield  made  his  next  note  a  little  more 
ambitious.  This  chef-d'oeuvre  read  as  fol 
lows  :  — 

DEER  Miss  NEVILLE,  —  Miss  Herrick  seys  to 
tell  you  she  cudent  wate  and  her  and  Mrs.  Ogilvie 
went  home. 

Yours  til  deth, 

JAMES  VANCE  CUTHBERTSON. 

The  success  of  this  billet-doux  was  instan 
taneous.  Within  three  hours  it  had  made 
the  rounds  of  "  The  Searchlight's  "  editorial 
rooms  and  Chesterfield  found  himself  famous. 
He  was  effusively  complimented  on  his  liter 
ary  style.  But  the  largest  drop  of  bliss  in  his 
overflowing  cup  was  to  see  Miss  Neville  tuck 
the  note  away  in  her  belt  "to  hold  and  to 
cherish,"  as  he  inferred,  forevermore. 

By  the  irony  of  fate,  it  was  at  this  time, 
when  his  sky  seemed  clearest,  that  a  thunder 
bolt  struck  Chesterfield.  The  rumor  of  Miss 

38 


The  Love  Affair  of  Chesterfield,  Jr. 

Neville's  engagement  to  Davidson,  of  the 
city  staff,  had  circulated  freely  in  the  city 
room  several  weeks  before  it  reached  the  boy's 
ears.  When  it  did,  he  sternly  refused  to  be 
lieve  that  any  such  tragedy  could  come  into 
his  life.  True,  he  had  seen  Davidson  bend 
ing  over  Miss  Neville's  easel  with  more  of 
interest  than  even  her  masterly  art  could  seem 
to  justify  :  but  all  the  men  on  the  paper  did 
that  more  or  less,  and  Chesterfield  had  rather 
gloried  in  such  indirect  tribute  to  his  own 
most  excellent  taste.  In  the  light  of  the  un 
canny  suggestions,  however,  he  watched  the 
couple  with  a  sharply  appraising  eye,  and 
several  glances  that  he  saw  pass  between 
them  wrung  his  very  soul  with  suffering. 
For  a  day  or  two  his  amiability  gave  way 
under  the  shock,  and  visitors  were  startled  by 
the  transformation  of  Chesterfield  into  a 
grumpy  youth  who  talked  out  of  one  side  of 
his  mouth  in  humble  imitation  of  the  city 
editor. 

He    was    finally    forced    to    acknowledge 
even    to    himself  the    truth    of   the    report. 
Davidson's  devotion  to  Miss  Neville  was  un 
mistakable,    and,    moreover,   that    lady    now 
39 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

wore  on  the  third  finger  of  her  left  hand  a 
diamond  ring  that  daily  flashed  its  heartless 
message  to  Chesterfield's  reluctant  eyes.  He 
knew  the  terrible  significance  of  this,  for 
only  the  previous  week  "  The  Searchlight's  " 
authority  on  etiquette  had  devoted  much 
space  to  the  subject  of  engagements  and  the 
question  of  the  ring.  With  the  confirmation 
of  his  worst  fears,  Chesterfield  pulled  himself 
together  like  a  man,  resumed  his  wonted 
amiability,  and  proceeded  to  make  the  best  of 
a  life  hopelessly  wrecked  at  twelve.  Even 
the  news  that  Miss  Neville  had  resigned  her 
position  on  "The  Searchlight"  and  was  to 
be  married  in  two  months  hardly  added  to  the 
gloom  and  bitterness  of  existence. 

He  was  not  so  distraught  but  that  he  took 
a  warm  interest  in  a  conversation  he  over 
heard  one  afternoon  between  the  Sunday 
editor  and  the  editor  of  the  humorous  sup 
plement.  Chesterfield  was  in  the  office  of 
the  latter,  looking  over  the  files  for  the  bene 
fit  of  an  indignant  contributor  who  was  cer 
tain  his  article  had  been  printed  and  not  paid 
for.  The  first  words  the  boy  overheard 
made  him  prick  up  his  ears. 
40 


The   Love  Affair  of  Chesterfield,  Jr. 

u  I  'm  surprised  to  find  that  it 's  David 
son,"  the  humorous  editor  was  saying.  "  It 's 
such  a  sneaking,  low  sort  of  performance.  I 
did  n't  think  he  was  capable  of  it.  But  here 
is  proof  enough  to  convict  any  man.  This 
is  a  bundle  of  jokes  he  sent  me,  and  here 
among  them,  like  a  snake  in  the  grass,  is  a 
nasty  little  joke  about  the  Chief,  that  he 
evidently  wrote  for  c  The  Funmaker.'  Of 
course,  it  got  among  my  stuff  by  mistake,  and 
he  '11  want  to  kick  himself  when  he  finds  it 
out.  See  ?  It 's  on  different  paper  from  the 
others  and  typewritten.  I  suppose  he  was 
getting  up  a  batch  for  c  The  Funmaker '  and 
this  slipped  out  of  that  bundle  into  mine. 
It 's  a  pretty  bad  slip  for  the  young  man." 

"  So  Davidson 's  the  fellow  that 's  been 
doing  that  dirty  work,  is  he  ? "  said  the  Sun 
day  editor.  "  Davidson,  of  all  men  !  I 
did  n't  think  he  had  it  in  him.  Why,  he 
must  have  been  systematically  ridiculing  in 
'The  Funmaker,'  for  a  year  and  a  half,  the 
Chief  and  the  paper  he  has  been  writing  for ! 
If  it  had  been  good-natured  stufF  it  would  n't 
have  counted  for  much,  but  lots  of  it  is  pos 
itively  libellous.  The  Chief  has  been  trying 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

to  find  out  the  writer  of  these  things  for 
months.  This  joke  is  a  particularly  weak 
one,  but  it 's  strong  enough  to  cut  off  David 
son's  head." 

"  Of  course,"  acquiesced  the  editor  of  the 
humorous  supplement.  He  hesitated  a  mo 
ment.  "  He 's  going  to  be  married  next 
month,  to  Miss  Neville,  is  n't  he  ?  "  he  added 
slowly. 

"  That 's  all  right,"  said  the  Sunday  editor, 
curtly.  "  We  can't  help  that.  I  'm  sorry 
for  her,  but  we  can't  have  a  man  around  the 
shop  who  is  doing  the  sneak  act  and  libelling 
the  Chief.  Let  c  The  Funmaker  '  take  him 
on.  It  would  be  as  much  as  our  own  heads  are 
worth  to  try  and  hush  this  up  now.  David 
son  must  go.  That 's  all  there  is  to  it." 

The  conversation  turned  into  other  chan 
nels,  and  the  boy,  whom  neither  of  the  editors 
had  noticed,  returned  to  the  irate  contributor 
in  the  anteroom.  He  sent  that  individual 
away  happy,  with  proofs  of  the  auditor's 
carelessness,  and  returned  to  his  desk  to  re 
flect  on  the  conversation  he  had  overheard. 
From  his  seat  he  could  see  Miss  Neville's 
smooth  hair  and  fine  profile  as  she  bent  over 
42 


The  Love  Affair  of  Chesterfield,  Jr. 

her  work.     This  was  to  be  her  last  week  at 
the  office. 

Chesterfield  regarded  her  with  gloom  on 
his  young  brow.  Of  course  if  Davidson  lost 
his  position  now  they  could  not  be  married. 
Even  if  he  secured  another  place  immediately 
he  would  wish  to  assure  himself  of  perma 
nence  there  before  taking  a  wife  to  support. 
Chesterfield  pitied  them  both  profoundly,  for 
he  could  not  see  that  the  crime  deserved  that 
so  heavy  a  punishment  should  be  meted  out 
to  it.  Everybody  had  laughed  over  u  The 
Funmaker's  "  jokes  about  "  The  Search 
light  " — even  the  office  boys.  Chesterfield 
had  thought  them  very  bright  and  had  specu 
lated  with  awe  over  the  cleverness  of  the 
unknown  writer.  The  boy  had  been  in 
spired  to  write  a  few  jokes  himself  and  sub 
mit  them  to  the  good-natured  editor  of  "  The 
Searchlight's "  humorous  supplement.  He 
recalled  once  more,  with  burning  cheeks,  the 
shouts  of  laughter  with  which  that  gentle 
man  had  read  his  efforts,  —  laughter,  Ches 
terfield  fully  realized,  not  called  forth  by  the 
point  or  caustic  style  of  the  jokes.  The  boy  had 
borne  no  malice,  but  he  had  thenceforward  re- 
43 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

tained  his  humorous  productions  in  the  private 
archives  of  his  own  desk,  where  they  continued 
to  increase  in  quantity  if  not  in  quality. 

It  was  a  pity  to  "  fire  "  Davidson  for  do 
ing  such  clever  outside  work,  Chesterfield 
thought,  especially  when  it  would  interfere 
with  his  marriage.  They  oughtn't  to  do  it 
—  it  was  n't  right.  The  evidence  against 
Davidson  was  only  circumstantial  at  best. 
A  dutiful  perusal  of  reports  of  murder  trials 
had  shown  Chesterfield  how  much  such  evi 
dence  could  be  relied  on.  According  to 
Kelly,  the  humorous  editor,  the  very  paper 
on  which  the  offending  paragraph  was  printed 
was  different  from  that  in  Davidson's  bundle 
of  manuscript.  It  was  written  on  the  type 
writer,  too.  Some  one  else  might  have  written 
it.  Some  one  else  might  say  he  had  ! 

Chesterfield  was  interrupted  in  his  reverie  by 
a  change  in  Miss  Neville's  position.  She  was 
beckoning  to  him.  He  was  at  her  side  in  an 
instant,  and  as  she  glanced  down  at  him  he 
saw  that  her  brown  eyes  looked  dim  and  tired. 

u  I  've  a  headache,  Chesterfield,"  she  said, 
laying  a  hand  lightly  on  her  young  knight's 
shoulder.  "  Will  you  go  down  to  the  chem- 
44 


The  Love  Affair  of  Chesterfield,  Jr. 

ist's  and  get  this  prescription  filled  for  me  ? 
You  need  not  wait  —  have  them  send  it  up. 
But  pay  for  it,  and  keep  the  change."  She 
slipped  a  silver  dollar  into  his  hand. 

"You  look  tired,  too,"  she  added,  with 
that  beautiful  sympathy  only  she  could  ex 
hibit,  as  she  turned  again  to  her  work.  "  I 
prescribe  a  glass  of  soda-water  for  you,  to  be 
taken  before  you  come  back." 

Chesterfield  retreated,  his  whole  small 
frame  one  delicious  glow.  As  he  drank  the 
soda-water  reverently,  while  waiting  for  the 
prescription  to  be  put  up,  his  young  heart 
swelled.  She  had  rested  her  hand  on  his 
shoulder,  she  had  noticed  that  he  was  tired, 
she  was  treating  him  to  soda-water  this  very 
minute.  Did  ever  a  boy  have  such  a  divin 
ity  to  worship  ?  The  question  was  an  abso 
lutely  rhetorical  one  for  Chesterfield.  He 
returned  to  his  desk  and  wrote  her  a  note  to 
accompany  the  prescription. 

DEAR  Miss  NEVILLE,  —  The  sody-water  was 
very  nice.  I  think  it  did  me  good.  I  hop  your 
hed  is  beter. 

Yours  as  ever, 

CHESTERFIELD. 

45 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

As  he  read  it  over  before  sealing  the  en 
velope  the  closing  phrase  struck  him  as  beau 
tifully  felicitous. 

"  She  '11  see  that  her  being  engaged  don't 
make  no  difference  in  my  feelings,"  he  told 
himself.  Then  he  pondered  for  a  long  time. 
Finally,  as  the  outcome  of  his  reflections,  he 
betook  himself  to  Mr.  Kelly's  office,  with 
the  inward  sentiments  of  a  youthful  martyr 
approaching  the  stake. 

The  editor  glanced  up  wearily  from  the 
jokes  he  was  reading  at  the  odd  little  figure 
which  had  halted  at  his  desk. 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  he  asked,  extending  his  hand 
to  receive  the  card  he  supposed  the  boy  had 
brought. 

"It's just  me,"  said  Chesterfield, elegantly. 
"I  —  I  —  want  to  speak  to  you  a  minute." 

"  More  jokes  ?  "  laughed  the  young  man. 
He  liked  Chesterfield,  as  all  the  editors  did. 
He  noticed  that  the  boy  looked  pale  and 
frightened,  and  he  spoke  to  him  more  pleas 
antly  than  ever. 

"  Anything  wrong  at  home  ?  "  he  asked. 
«N  —  no,  sir,"  said   Chesterfield.     "It's 
—  it 's  about  that  joke  I  heard  you  and  Mr. 
46 


The  Love  Affair  of  Chesterfield,  Jr. 

Marbury  talking  about,  the  one  you  thought 
Mr.  Davidson  wrote.  I  —  I  —  did  n't  think 
there  was  any  harm  in  it.  Anyhow,  I  ain't 
goin'  to  let  him  shoulder  it.  I  thought  you 
knew  my  jokes,"  finished  the  boy,  desperately. 
The  thing  was  harder  to  do  than  he  had 
imagined,  and  the  embarrassment  he  had  felt 
in  the  beginning  developed  into  a  nervous 
fear.  His  evident  suffering  as  he  wriggled 
uneasily  under  the  cool  gray  eyes  of  the  editor 
led  that  young  man  to  consider  his  statement, 
startling  though  it  was. 

"  Tell  me  all  about  it,"  said  Mr.  Kelly, 
briefly. 

"  I  've  been  writing  jokes,  you  know," 
stammered  the  self-accusing  culprit,  "  an'  I 
thought  one  like  c  The  Funmaker '  publishes 
would  go  if  't  was  polished  up."  Chesterfield 
had  heard  this  expression  used  freely  around 
the  office  and  he  could  n't  resist  introducing 
it  at  this  point,  where  it  seemed  most  appro 
priately  telling.  The  editor  turned  his  head 
hastily  to  conceal  a  smile,  but  the  maker  of 
jokes  saw  the  telltale  twitch  of  the  lips  and 
went  on  with  reviving  courage. 

"  I  did  n't  dast  to  turn  it  in  as  mine,"  he 
47 


Tales  of  the  City   Room 

continued,  "  'cos  you  laughed  at  my  other 
ones  so.  If  you  come  on  it  among  some 
other  things  I  thought  maybe  you'd  say 
something  about  it  without  knowing  it  was 
mine.  But  after  what  I  heard  you  say  I  had 
to  come  to  you  and  tell  you." 

He  stopped  for  breath.  The  editor  looked 
at  him  keenly  and  then  said  with  terrible 
impressiveness,  — 

u  Well,  James,  you  seem  to  have  got  your 
self  into  a  nice  mess." 

Chesterfield's  heart  sank.  He  did  n't  like 
the  editor's  tone,  and  in  his  darkest  imagin 
ings  it  had  not  occurred  to  him  that  he  would 
be  called  "  James  "  by  the  young  man  who 
had  always  been  so  kind  to  him.  He  looked 
up  at  Mr.  Kelly  with  something  in  his  eyes 
that  touched  that  journalistic  genius. 

"  I  suppose,  Chesterfield,"  he  said  more 
lightly,  "  that  you  claim  to  be  the  proud 
author  of  all  '  The  Funmaker's  '  jokes  roast 
ing  '  The  Searchlight/  " 

"  Oh,  no,  sir.     'Deed  I  don't,"  said  Ches 
terfield,  refuting  this  charge  with  vigor.     "  I 
would  n't  write  them  things  against  the  paper. 
I  did  n't  think  this  one  was  so — " 
48 


The  Love  Affair  of  Chesterfield,  Jr. 

The  words  died  on  his  lips.  Coming 
through  the  door,  with  his  most  d'ebonnaire  air, 
was  the  luckless  Davidson  —  here  apparently 
to  hopelessly  tangle  up  again  what  had  been 
so  adroitly  straightened  out  for  him. 

"  Was  my  stuff  all  right,  old  man  ?  "  he 
asked  Kelly,  cheerily. 

Kelly  looked  up  with  an  apolegetic  smile. 

"  Yes,  it  was,"  he  said, "  and  we  owe  you  an 
apology,  Davidson.  We  found  a  nasty  little 
joke  about  l  The  Searchlight '  on  my  desk  and 
thought  you  had  written  it  and  all  that  c  Fun- 
maker  '  stuff.  Marbury  was  hot  about  it,  and 
there  was  a  heap  of  trouble  ahead  of  you, 
when  this  little  rat  [indicating  Chesterfield] 
comes  and  owns  up  to  it  because  he  heard 
us  talking  about  it  as  yours.  He  slipped  it 
into  the  stuff  on  my  desk."  He  turned  to  the 
boy  with  sudden  suspicion.  "  How  did  you 
get  it  typewritten  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Miss  Smith  lets  me  practise  on  her  type 
writer  when  she  's  out  to  lunch,"  said  the  boy, 
telling  the  truth  promptly,  "  'cos  I  want  to 
learn." 

This  Kelly  knew  to  be  true,  for  he  had 
seen  the  boy  manipulating  the  keys.  It  ban- 
4  49 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

ished  the  editor's  last  doubt.  In  his  quick 
glance  toward  the  boy  he  had  failed  to  see 
the  slight  flush  on  Davidson's  face,  and  now 
as  he  turned  his  attention  to  him  he  also 
missed  the  warning  glance  Chesterfield  shot 
at  his  successful  rival  in  the  affections  of 
Miss  Neville. 

"  Go  back  to  your  post,  James,"  said 
Kelly,  blandly.  "  We  '11  attend  to  your  case 
later." 

Chesterfield  went  with  a  heavy  heart.  He 
was  not  especially  cheered  by  the  sight  of 
Kelly  and  the  Sunday  editor  in  close  con 
verse  half  an  hour  later.  He  was  in  reality 
far  from  their  thoughts,  but  the  boy,  though 
he  had  surprised  even  himself  by  his  diplo 
macy,  felt  they  were  sealing  his  doom  with 
promptness  and  despatch.  He  would  be 
"  fired,"  he  told  himself,  drearily,  and  his 
hard-working  mother  in  the  little  Staten 
Island  home  would  miss  the  six  dollars  which 
he  loyally  handed  over  to  her  every  Saturday 
night. 

His  gloom  was  not  dispelled  by  the  appear 
ance  of  Davidson,  who  swung  out  of  the 
office  door,  whistling  a  popular  street  air. 


The  Love  Affair  of  Chesterfield,  Jr. 

He  stopped  as  he  reached  the  boy  and  clapped 
him  on  the  shoulder.  The  anteroom  was 
empty  save  for  the  two.  The  doors  behind 
them  were  closed,  and  they  were,  for  the 
moment,  safe  from  observation. 

"  By  Jove,  that  was  a  close  call !  "  said 
Davidson,  wiping  his  face  and  dropping  his 
happy-go-lucky  air.  "  Chesterfield,  you  're  a 
little  trump  !  I  don't  know  why  the  dickens 
you  did  this  thing  for  me,  but  I  'm  awfully 
grateful  to  you.  If  they  had  found  me  out  it 
would  have  been  all  up  with  John  Davidson. 
I  '11  make  it  up  to  you,  somehow,  and  if  they 
had  c  fired '  you,  I  would  have  found  another 
place  for  you.  But  they  won't  —  Kelly  told 
me  so.  You  're  too  popular.  I  don't  wonder 
at  your  popularity,"  he  added,  with  some  enthu 
siasm,  "  if  this  is  the  kind  of  thing  you  do." 

Chesterfield  twisted  himself  uneasily  from 
beneath  the  caressing  hand. 

"  You  need  n't  bother  about  me,"  he  said 
gruffly.  He  had  been  prevaricating  to  Mr. 
Kelly  so  freely  that  it  was  a  relief  not  to 
disguise  the  truth  now.  He  indicated  with 
his  finger  the  closed  door  between  them  and 
Miss  Neville. 

51 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

"  I  ain't  done  this  thing  for  you,"  he  said 
shortly.  "I  done  it  for  her.  If  you'd  got 
fired  you  could  n't  marry  her  —  and  she 
might  have  been  disappointed." 

"  Yes,"  acquiesced  Davidson,  thought 
fully,  "  she  might.  I  might  have  been 
disappointed,  too,  but  I  see  you  did  n't  let 
that  thought  influence  you.  Believe  me,  my 
boy,"  he  added  seriously,  "  I  appreciate  any 
thing  you  do  for  Miss  Neville  much  more 
than  if  you  had  done  it  for  me.  I  hope  you 
will  let  me  thank  you  for  us  both." 

He  extended  his  hand,  into  which,  after  an 
instant's  hesitation,  Chesterfield  gravely  put 
his  own  small  paw.  Davidson  looked  at 
him  with  a  peculiar  expression  in  his  hand 
some  eyes. 

"  You  're  a  trump,  Chesterfield  ! "  he  re 
peated  feelingly. 

He  put  his  hands  on  the  boy's  shoulders, 
help  him  off  at  arm's  length  and  looked  him 
over. 

"  Chesterfield,"     he     added     thoughtfully, 

"  I  have  observed  that  your  clothes  are  not 

altogether    suited   to   a   young   gentleman   in 

your  position.     For  example,  you  are  wearing 

52 


The  Love  Affair  of  Chesterfield,  Jr. 

knee  pants.  If  you  '11  meet  me  at  Swift 
and  Prang's  clothing  store  at  half-past  six 
to-night  we  '11  see  what  they  can  do  to  fit 
you  out  with  clothes  that  are  more  suitable 
to  your  style.  I  think  they  should  include 
trousers  of  the  most  correct  and  elegant  cut." 

Chesterfield,  Jr.,  was  a  small  boy  whose 
views  of  life  and  conduct,  when  not  exalted 
by  the  inspiration  of  the  goddess  of  his  youth 
ful  heart,  Miss  Neville,  were  eminently  prac 
tical  and  clear-headed.  He  knew  that  he 
would  not  have  undertaken  the  heroic  role  he 
had  except  for  her.  That  Davidson  should 
feel  constrained  to  some  return  for  the  benefit 
he  had  incidentally  derived  from  it  was  only 
a  worthy  sentiment  on  his  part.  But  if 
Chesterfield  accepted  this  largess  of  clothing 
it  was  still  principally  through  thought  of 
her.  She  would  see  him  in  the  trousers  ! 

"  I  '11  be  there,"  he  replied  briefly. 


S3 


AT   THE   CLOSE   OF   THE 
SECOND    DAY 


55 


AT  THE  CLOSE  OF  THE  SECOND 
DAY. 

THE  little  room,  high  up  in  the  rear  of 
the  old-fashioned  New  York  house, 
had  come  to  seem  like  home  to  its  occupant. 
Its  small  window  overlooked  the  garden  of 
a  German  neighbor  who  had'  cultivated,  in 
his  ten  by  twelve  expanse  of  ground,  a  riot 
of  blooming  sweet  peas,  scarlet  geraniums, 
and  sturdy  vines  that  reached  out  over  the  ad 
joining  walls  in  most  friendly  fashion.  Busy 
bees  had  found  the  little  honey  mart  in  the 
heart  of  the  big  city,  and  their  buzzing,  as 
they  worked  among  the  flowers,  added  the 
final  touch  to  the  homely  charm  of  the 
place. 

Virginia  Imboden  looked  at  the  familiar 
scene  with  unseeing  eyes,  her  forehead  pressed 
dismally  against  the  window-pane.  Before 
her  was  this  artless  evidence  of  simple  pros 
perity.  In  the  street,  beyond  the  garden 
wall,  white-frocked  children  played  about, 
daintily  regardful  of  their  clothes.  The 
57 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

warm  summer  breeze  that  had  been  dallying 
among  the  geraniums  suddenly  bore  up  to 
her  the  tones  of  a  street  organ.  The  music, 
softened  by  distance,  came  faintly  to  her  ears, 
and  her  lips  twitched  rather  sardonically  as 
she  recognized  the  familiar  strains  of  the 
"  Miserere."  It  seemed  a  fitting  touch  of 
irony  that  the  old  air  should  be  dinned  into 
her  ears  at  the  moment  of  her  own  surrender 
to  despair.  She  recalled  the  last  time  she  had 
heard  it.  One  of  Herforth's  political  victims 
had  sent  him  a  box  for  the  opera,  and  that 
hospitable  youth  had  invited  rather  more  of 
his  friends  than  the  box  would  hold  to  enjoy 
the  music  with  him.  They  had  had  a  jolly 
time.  Miss  Imboden's  dark  eyes  twinkled  as 
she  recalled  it.  After  the  opera  they  had 
indulged  in  a  little  supper  —  a  very  good 
supper,  she  remembered.  She  mentally  and 
lingeringly  called  up  the  various  items  of  the 
bill  of  fare.  They  had  begun  with  steamed 
oysters,  followed  by  mallard  duck  with  jelly, 
celery,  and  champagne,  and  ending  with  the 
reckless  conbination  of  lobster  salad  and  ices. 
How  good  it  had  all  tasted  !  Miss  Imboden 
looked  around  the  clean,  bare  little  room  with 

58 


At  the  Close  of  the  Second  Day 

something  very  like  a  groan;  for  Miss 
Imboden  was  hungry. 

The  bald  statement,  as  she  repeated  it  to 
herself,  was  as  convincing  as  the  landlady's 
remarks  had  been  half  an  hour  before,  when 
that  stout  person  had  toiled  up  the  stairs  for 
a  few  moments  of  serious  converse  with  her 
young  lodger.  She  had  informed  Miss  Im 
boden  that  she  herself  was  honored  in  the 
neighborhood  as  a  woman  who  paid  her  bills 
promptly,  and  she  had  then  solicitously  in 
quired  how  she  could  be  expected  to  main 
tain  that  enviable  reputation  unless  her 
lodgers  paid  her.  The  questions  embar 
rassed  the  young  woman  on  the  top  floor, 
back.  Miss  Imboden  admitted  that  she  had 
not  paid  her  room  rent  for  five  weeks.  She 
went  further,  and  recklessly  stated  that  there 
were  no  present  indications  of  her  being  able 
to  pay  it  for  five  weeks  to  come.  Where 
upon  the  interview  had  concluded  rather  un 
pleasantly,  with  Mrs.  Smith's  concise  request 
for  the  key  and  the  room  "  as  early  Monday 
morning  as  you  can  make  it  convenient,  if 
you  please." 

Miss  Imboden  was  not,  as  a  rule,  easily 
59 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

depressed,  but  her  heart  had  sunk  as  she 
found  herself  alone  again,  looking  out  on  the 
little  garden  which  had  been  such  a  comfort 
to  her  through  the  long,  hot  summer.  In 
her  thoughts  she  had  facetiously  called  it  hers, 
and  she  had  criticised  freely  the  amateur  gar 
dening  of  the  simple  old  man  who  had  pot 
tered  happily  up  and  down  the  narrow  path 
with  his  ubiquitous  watering  can.  She  would 
have  made  that  garden  like  the  one  she  loved 
out  West,  with  its  lilies  of  the  valley  and  its 
wealth  of  sweet-scented,  homely  mignonette. 
Over  in  the  corner  where  he  had  planted 
those  gaudy  geraniums  she  would  have  put  — 
but  she  was  going  away  the  day  after  to 
morrow  to  leave  it  all  behind  her.  Going 
away,  though  she  knew  of  no  place  to  go. 
And  she  had  eaten  nothing  for  two  days,  and 
she  was  hungry. 

That  stubborn  fact  presented  itself  with 
malevolent  persistence  and  would  not  down. 
She  had  never  before  been  really  hungry. 
Sometimes,  after  long  tramps  over  the  moun 
tains  or  glorious  days  on  the  sea,  she  had 
thought  she  was.  But  the  healthy  appetite 
with  which  she  had  sat  down  to  the  table 
60 


At  the  Close  of  the  Second  Day 

then  had  been  a  wholly  different  thing  from 
this  gnawing  sensation  that  was  so  new  — 
and  so  terrible.  She  discovered  with  alarm 
that  she  was  growing  faint.  That  last  inter 
view  with  the  landlady  had  not  been  a  pleas 
ant  experience  for  a  proud  woman. 

"  She  seemed  annoyed  because  I  have  n't 
any  money,"  said  the  girl  to  herself,  drearily. 
"  I  'm  quite  sure  she  's  not  so  acutely  incon 
venienced  by  it  as  I  am." 

She  looked  around  the  room  in  the  vain 
effort  to  discover  something  of  her  own  that 
had  not  yet  been  pawned.  There  was  nothing. 
The  trifles  adapted  to  that  sort  of  business 
negotiation  had  gone  one  by  one  during  a 
u  hard  luck  period,"  of  which  she  had  heard 
her  professional  friends  speak  but  which  she 
had  never  thought  to  experience  herself. 
When  she  had  unexpectedly  lost  her  position 
on  "The  Globe,"  and  the  "hard  luck 
period  "  began,  she  had  at  first  rather  enjoyed 
the  novelty.  It  was  interesting  to  speculate 
as  to  how  long  her  money  would  last.  It  had 
been  interesting,  and  "developing,  too,"  she 
told  herself,  to  pawn  her  belongings  when 
the  money  was  gone,  and  to  live  on  two 
61 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

cheap  meals  a  day.  But  the  charm  faded  as 
the  novelty  wore  off,  and  when  the  two  meals 
became  one  meal,  and  finally,  as  to-day  and 
yesterday,  no  meal,  Miss  Imboden  sighed 
for  vulgar  affluence.  It  was  the  dull  season. 
There  was  no  hope  of  securing  a  position 
until  fall  —  and  to-day  was  Saturday,  the 
twenty-fifth  of  August.  All  her  friends  were 
out  of  town.  The  two  or  three  newspaper 
associates  whom  she  knew  intimately  enough 
to  go  to  in  such  straits  were  away  on  their 
vacations.  There  was  absolutely  no  one 
from  whom  she  could  or  would  borrow  —  and 
she  was  hungry. 

She  put  on  her  hat  and  thrust  the  pin 
through  her  soft  brown  hair.  She  had  not 
pawned  her  clothes  —  she  could  not  afford  to 
do  that,  she  had  told  herself.  She  would 
make  a  good  appearance  to  the  last,  and  if 
the  morgue  was  inevitable,  perhaps  she  would 
be  treated  as  a  gentlewoman  should  be  treated 
—  a  gentlewoman  in  "  temporary  financial 
difficulties."  There  was  nothing  suggestive 
of  these  about  the  slight,  elegant  figure  in  its 
well-fitting  tailor-made  gown.  Her  shoes  and 
gloves  were  perfect,  her  hat  a  becoming  little 
62 


At  the  Close  of  the  Second  Day 

French  "  confection,"  bought  in  the  prosper 
ous  days  of  early  spring,  and  the  face  be 
neath  it  a  charming  one,  notwithstanding  its 
pallor  and  the  peculiar  expression  in  the  big, 
dark  eyes. 

"  Good-by,"  said  Miss  Imboden,  bowing 
with  much  elegance  to  her  reflection  in  the 
small  mirror  on  the  mantel.  u  I  'm  going 
out  —  and  perhaps  I  shall  not  see  you  again. 
I  may  go  to  the  river  —  but  I  'm  sorry,  for  it 
seems  to  me  that  you  and  I,  if  you  're  the 
body  and  I  'm  the  soul  addressing  it,  deserve 
a  better  fate  than  that.  We  've  done  very 
well  together  for  twenty-five  years,  and  if 
we  're  overthrown  now  it 's  not  our  fault/' 

She  stood  silent,  looking  into  the  brown 
eyes  that  looked  so  bravely  back  at  her.  She 
saw  them  fill  suddenly,  and  she  pressed  her 
handkerchief  against  her  face  with  a  little 
sob. 

"  I  wonder  if  it 's  all  a  horrible  nightmare," 
she  murmured  aloud  —  "  or  perhaps  I  'm  los 
ing  my  mind."  She  pulled  down  her  veil 
and  left  the  room  without  a  glance  behind. 
The  landlady  heard  her  light  steps  going 
down  the  stairs  and  experienced  for  a  moment 

63 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

a  slight  qualm  of  conscience.  She  was  not 
a  hard-hearted  woman,  but  she  had  been  irri 
tated  by  the  girl's  apparent  gay  indifference 
to  her  position.  She  did  not  realize  that  it 
was  assumed  to  hide  a  depth  of  depression 
which  she  would  have  been  equally  at  a  loss 
to  understand. 

Miss  Imboden  strolled  down  the  street  in 
the  bright  warm  sunshine,  resolutely  refusing 
to  consider  a  few  morbid  suggestions  which 
her  exhausted  nerves  communicated  to  her 
brain.  She  had  decided  to  make  a  last  effort 
to  collect  from  the  editor  of  an  obscure  little 
periodical  a  few  dollars  which  he  had  prom 
ised  her  for  an  accepted  manuscript.  If  he 
could  be  induced  to  advance  this  money 
before  the  publication  of  the  article,  it  would 
tide  her  over  a  day  or  two  —  and  who  could 
tell  what  would  happen  then  ?  She  had  no 
money  for  car-fare,  so  she  made  the  hot  and 
weary  journey  on  foot,  to  be  met  by  disap 
pointment  at  the  end.  She  had  quite  for 
gotten  that  it  was  Saturday,  and  that  the 
office  closed  at  two  o'clock  on  that  day.  She 
looked  at  the  barred  door  with  dull  resent 
ment.  She  had  built  her  hopes  on  the  editor 


At  the  Close  of  the  Second  Day 

more  strongly  than  she  had  realized,  and  the 
sudden  disappointment  almost  stunned  her. 
As  she  came  out  of  the  building  in  which 
"  The  Woman's  Banner "  was  published, 
she  glanced  at  the  clock  in  the  window  of 
a  neighboring  jeweller  and  saw  that  it  was 
after  five.  Happy  men  and  women  were 
hurrying  along  the  street  on  their  way  to 
dinner,  —  at  least,  they  moved  briskly  and 
seemed  happy.  The  cable  cars  that  rounded 
"  Dead  Man's  Curve  "  bore  a  freight  of  for 
tunate  human  beings  —  going  home  to  dinner  ! 
The  organ  man  who  ground  out  the  ghostly 
strains  of  long-forgotten  airs  on  a  wheezy 
little  instrument  near  the  corner  would  soon 
go  home  to  dinner.  The  world  was  full  of 
people  to  whom  dinner  was  a  cheerful  com 
monplace,  while  to  her  — 

A  passing  woman,  clad  in  a  shabby  black 
gown,  had  hesitated  and  was  looking  at  her 
sympathetically.  Miss  Imboden  realized,  with 
a  sudden  flush,  that  she  must  have  staggered 
a  trifle  and  that  she  was  now  standing  still. 
She  pulled  herself  together  and  went  on,  her 
head  proudly  erect.  "  To  the  river,"  said 
the  morbid  voice  within  —  and  for  the  first 
5  65 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

time  that  dreary  possibility  began  to  put   on 
the  guise  of  the  probable. 

As  she  turned  toward  Broadway  she  heard 
quick  steps  beside  her  and  glanced  up  with 
a  smile,  expecting  to  see  the  sympathetic  face 
of  the  woman  in  black.  Instead,  she  looked 
into  a  pair  of  dark  gray  eyes  under  heavy 
brows  which  almost  met  over  a  sharply  aqui 
line  nose.  She  saw  an  immaculate  silk  hat 
raised,  and  became  at  the  same  time  aware 
that  this  very  handsome,  well-dressed  stranger 
was  speaking  to  her. 

"  Good-evening,"  said  that  individual,  with 
genial  coolness. 

u  Good-evening,"  replied  Miss  Imboden, 
with  indecision. 

The  erect  military  figure  beside  her  adapted 
his  step  to  hers  and  walked  on  by  her  side 
like  an  old  acquaintance. 

u  May  I  ask  where  you  are  going  ?  "  he  said. 

His  voice  had  the  quiet  interest  and  as 
sured  tone  of  a  friendship  which  warranted 
the  question.  Miss  Imboden,  who  appreci 
ated  the  artistic,  appreciated  it  even  in  these 
trying  circumstances.  She  hesitated  a  mo 
ment  then  let  herself  drift  with  the  tide. 
66 


At  the  Close  of  the  Second  Day 

"  I  'm  going  to  dinner,"  she  announced 
firmly. 

"  May  I  beg  that  you  will  take  pity  on 
me  and  dine  with  me  ?  "  suggested  her  new 
companion.  "  I  'm  a  stranger  in  the  city  and 
lonely.  Your  face,  as  I  passed  you,  looked 
very  much  as  I  felt.  I  took  the  liberty  of 
following  you  and  speaking  to  you  like  a 
beggar  asking  alms.  Won't  you  give  me 
the  pleasure  of  your  company  for  an  hour 
or  two  over  our  dinner  ?  " 

It  was  all  wrong,  conventionally  wrong. 
Miss  Imboden  was  acutely  conscious  of  that. 
But  the  river  would  be  all  wrong,  too,  and 
surely  this  gnawing  hunger,  this  faintness,  this 
queer  feeling  in  her  head  were  wrong  as  well. 
Better  dinner  with  a  stranger  than  the  river 
by  herself.  She  would  accept  his  invitation, 
yes,  but  under  no  false  pretences. 

u  Thank  you,"  she  said  with  quiet  dignity, 
"I  will  dine  with  you,  with  pleasure.  I  have 
not  dined  for  two  days." 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  start,  and  the  eyes 
of  the  man  of  the  world  read  the  truth  in  the 
face  beside  him.  He  muttered  a  startled 
ejaculation  under  his  breath,  and,  quickening 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

his  step,  took  her  to  a  large  restaurant,  not 
many  blocks  away.  He  established  her  in 
a  cosey  corner  by  the  window,  where  the 
summer  breeze  blew  in  upon  her,  laden  with 
the  perfume  of  the  mignonette  that  blossomed 
on  the  window-sill.  She  was  glad  to  see  her 
favorite  flower  here.  It  seemed  a  happy 
omen,  a  home  sanction  on  a  course  erratic 
but  blameless.  She  leaned  back  in  her  chair 
and  wondered  why  the  tables  and  diners 
seemed  so  far  away,  and  why  the  voice  of 
the  waiter  came  to  her  from  such  a  distance. 
She  was  aroused  by  the  sensation  of  having 
something  go  stinging  down  her  throat,  some 
thing  that  put  new  life  into  her.  The  stranger 
was  holding  a  glass  to  her  lips  and  the  waiter 
stood  by  with  water. 

"  It 's  the  heat,"  she  heard  her  escort  say  to 
him.  "She's  a  little  overcome  by  it.  She 
has  been  out  in  the  sun  too  long.  She  '11  be 
better  when  she  has  eaten  something.  Bring 
the  soup  as  soon  as  you  can." 

She  sat  up,  mechanically  straightening  her 
hat.  "  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said  simply. 
"  I  feel  quite  myself  now.  Thank  you." 

"  What  a  thoroughbred  she  is !  "  he  thought. 
68 


At  the  Close  of  the  Second  Day 

He  repeated  the  inward  comment  as  he 
watched  her  eat  her  soup  as  deliberately  and 
daintily  as  if  she  had  risen  from  the  luncheon 
table  but  a  few  hours  before.  She  looked  up 
when  the  waiter  removed  the  plates,  and  the 
ready  laughter  bubbled  to  her  eyes  and  looked 
out  at  him  in  a  quizzical  little  gleam.  She 
was  quite  herself  again,  and  she  suddenly  de 
termined  that  he  should  have  as  pleasant  an 
hour  as  it  was  in  her  power  to  give  him.  He 
was  doing  a  corporal  work  of  mercy  —  feed 
ing  the  hungry.  She  would  do  a  spiritual 
work  of  mercy — comfort  the  lonely.  His 
eyes  were  bent  on  the  bill  of  fare  and  he  was 
giving  his  order  to  the  waiter  with  the  seri 
ousness  which  the  importance  of  the  occasion 
demanded.  She  took  advantage  of  the  op 
portunity  to  study  his  face.  It  was  a  hand 
some  face  —  beautiful,  she  decided,  because 
there  was  soul  in  it.  His  complexion,  though 
dark,  was  very  clear,  and  the  gray  eyes,  beneath 
their  long  lashes,  had  an  almost  boyish  frank 
ness.  They  looked  up  at  her  as  the  waiter 
departed,  and  his  white  teeth  flashed  in  a 
quick  response  to  the  faint  smile  he  saw  on 
her  lips. 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

"  You  feel  better,  don't  you  ? "  he  re 
marked,  looking  at  her  with  gay  friendliness. 
"  I  'm  not  going  to  ask  you  anything  about  it 
yet.  Perhaps,  later,  you  '11  tell  me.  For  the 
present,  we  're  going  to  play  that  we  've  been 
friends  for  a  thousand  years,  through  all  sorts 
of  incarnations,  as  it  were.  I  really  believe 
we  have,  don't  you  ?  " 

She  smiled  back  at  him  with  as  frank  a 
friendliness  as  his  own. 

"  According  to  the  theosophists,"  she  said, 
"  our  souls  have  recognized  each  other.  They 
always  do,  through  any  number  of  incarna 
tions,  if  they  are  really  congenial  and  friendly. 
They  recognize  their  enemies  of  past  incar 
nations,  too,  and  so,  when  you  meet  a  man 
and  take  what  you  think  is  an  unreasonable 
dislike  to  him,  it  simply  means  that  you  and 
he  have  had  some  trouble  in  another  life  and 
that  the  soul  has  recognized  its  enemy.  You 
were  kind  to  me  a  thousand  years  ago,  and  I 
remember  it." 

"  It 's  a  refreshing  theory,"  said  her  com 
panion,  gratefully.  "  It  lessens  the  strain  on 
one's  mind.  When  you  find  yourself  loath 
ing  a  fellow  you  can  accept  the  condition  as 
70 


At  the  Close  of  the  Second  Day 

a  matter  of  course  instead  of  speculating  about 
it  and  fearing  that  you  are  doing  him  an  in 
justice.  You  need  merely  say  to  yourself, 
c  Well,  he  acted  so  badly  in  that  seventeenth 
incarnation  of  his  that  no  self-respecting  man 
could  have  anything  to  do  with  him  now.' 
Whereupon  you  dismiss  him  from  your  mind 
with  a  contented  smile." 

He  helped  her  to  the  fish  as  he  spoke,  and 
they  drifted  into  a  light-hearted  talk  which 
developed  a  similarity  of  taste  and  point  of 
view  that  surprised  them  both.  Over  the 
salad  he  told  her  of  his  experiences  as  a  civil 
engineer  in  Central  America,  touching  but 
lightly  on  the  personal  side  of  the  narrative, 
and  giving  to  the  incidents  a  picturesqueness 
that  charmed  his  guest. 

Under  the  influence  of  food  and  friendliness 
Miss  Imboden's  spirits  revived  as  a  drooping 
plant  straightens  itself  after  a  shower.  She 
sipped  the  glass  of  champagne  he  poured  out 
for  her  and  resolutely  kept  in  the  background 
the  haunting  spectre  of  to-morrow.  It  was 
her  duty  to  be  cheerful  and  companionable. 
The  gas  had  been  lit,  and  burned  softly  under 
colored  shades.  Through  the  window  she 
71 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

could  see  the  twinkling  lights  of  Broadway. 
She  turned  from  them  to  meet  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  her  with  a  yet  pleasanter  twinkle. 
They  had  been  talking  so  freely  and  light- 
heartedly  that  both  had  temporarily  forgotten 
the  strangeness  of  their  position.  It  came  to 
them  after  this  little  lull  and  there  was  a 
moment  of  embarrassment.  He  recovered 
himself  first,  and,  over  the  ices,  gave  her  a 
quiet  imitation  of  an  English  celebrity  which 
delighted  her  by  its  fidelity  to  life.  But  as 
she  looked  and  listened  the  woman's  mind 
was  busy.  She  must  get  away  from  him 
now — how,  she  did  not  know,  but  somehow, 
and  almost  at  once.  The  coffee  had  been 
ordered.  She  drank  it,  declining  the  liqueur 
which  came  with  it,  and  as  he  sipped  his  and 
chatted  on,  her  plan  of  action  outlined  itself 
in  her  mind. 

If  only  she  had  met  him  in  any  other  way 
she  would  have  been  glad  to  know  him  bet 
ter.  But  she  was  resolved  not  to  continue 
an  acquaintance  whose  warrant  had  lapsed. 
He  had  been  charming.  He  had  given  her 
a  most  excellent  dinner,  and  his  manner 
had  been  that  of  a  gentleman  and  a  friend. 
72 


At  the  Close  of  the  Second  Day 

Thanks  to  her,  his  enjoyment  had  been  com 
plete.  It  was  time  that  the  incident  should 
end.  She  had  had  appetite  and  no  dinner. 
He  had  dinner  but  no  appetite.  Each  had 
supplied  the  other's  lack.  They  were  quits. 

"What  shall  we  do  next?"  he  asked 
cheerfully,  as  he  took  the  check  from  the 
waiter.  "  It 's  too  warm  for  the  theatre, 
is  n't  it  ?  And  there  's  nothing  on  that 's 
really  good.  Why  not  take  a  pleasant  drive 
through  Central  Park  and  around  Claremont  ? 
It 's  only  eight.  We  can  be  back  by  ten,  if 
you  wish." 

The  proposition  fitted  in  with  her  plan, 
and  she  acquiesced. 

"  I  will  order  the  carriage,"  he  said,  "  and 
have  it  at  the  ladies'  entrance.  Perhaps 
you  'd  better  wait  in  the  little  reception-room 
at  the  left."  He  led  her  there  as  he  spoke 
and  saw  her  comfortably  seated. 

u  I  will  not  keep  you  waiting  more  than 
five  minutes,"  he  promised,  glancing  down  at 
her  protectingly. 

She  watched  his  erect  figure  go  through 
the  door  and  down  the  hall.  The  instant  he 
was  out  of  sight  she  sprang  to  her  feet,  and 
73 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

the  next  moment  the  pedestrians  on  Eleventh 
Street  were  confronted  by  the  spectacle  of  a 
young  lady,  perfectly  dressed,  running  like  a 
deer  along  that  quiet  thoroughfare  through 
the  gathering  darkness.  She  did  not  stop 
until  she  reached  Washington  Square.  There 
she  dropped  exhausted  on  a  small  bench  and 
panted  as  she  sat  looking  up  at  the  cross 
blazing  on  the  lofty  tower  of  the  church  in 
front  of  her. 

It  was  fate,  and  a  happy  one  for  Miss 
Imboden,  that  sent  Ruth  Herrick  swinging 
rapidly  across  the  Square  on  her  way  home 
from  "  The  Searchlight  "  office.  Her  quick 
eye  saw  the  lonely  figure  and  read  the  de 
pression  in  its  relaxed  lines.  She  looked 
sharply  at  the  averted  face,  and  recognized 
Miss  Imboden,  whom  she  knew  slightly. 

"  Why,  Miss  Imboden  !  "  she  exclaimed, 
stopping  suddenly  before  the  drooping  form. 
"  How  do  you  do  ?  I  'm  so  glad  to  see 
you." 

The  cheery  voice   and  the  expression  of 

sympathy  in  Miss  Herrick's  gray  eyes  broke 

the   barriers   of  the   other  woman's   reserve. 

She  sobbed  almost  hysterically  as  she  caught 

74 


At  the  Close  of  the  Second  Day 

Miss  Herrick's  hands  in  hers  as  confidingly  as 
a  child  reaches  out  to  its  mother  in  the  dark. 

u  I  've  had  so  much  trouble,"  she  said.  "  I 
would  have  come  to  you,  but  I  heard  that 
you  were  away  on  your  vacation." 

"  I  got  back  last  night,"  explained  "  The 
Searchlight's"  leading  woman.  "They  sent 
for  me.  I  had  a  great  deal  of  work  piled  up 
awaiting  me,  and  stayed  late  to  do  it.  I 
thought  a  good  tramp  would  put  me  in  trim 
again  after  ten  hours  at  my  desk,  so  I  walked 
up  from  '  The  Searchlight '  office.  Was  n't 
it  lucky  ?  We  '11  take  the  elevated  train  at 
Eighth  Street  and  you  shall  tell  me  all  about 
it  on  our  way  home." 

The  story  was  begun  in  the  train  and  com 
pleted  in  Miss  Herrick's  apartment  at  the 
Hotel  Edward.  Miss  Imboden  was  tucked 
cosily  into  a  big  chair  near  a  window  over 
looking  the  ivy-covered  Moorish  court  of  the 
hotel ;  under  her  tired  feet  was  a  hassock,  in 
her  hand  was  a  big  palm-leaf  fan,  and  before 
her  sat  Ruth  Herrick,  all  interest  and  atten 
tion. 

u  Now  I  '11  tell  you  what  you  're  going  to 
do,"  said  that  resolute  young  person  when  the 
75 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

tale  was  ended.  "You're  to  stay  here  with 
me  until  you  get  thoroughly  settled.  I  think 
our  city  editor  will  give  you  a  place  on  '  The 
Searchlight.'  He  was  asking  to-day  for 
some  one  to  do  the  news  of  the  women's 
clubs  when  the  season  opens.  I  '11  introduce 
you  to  him  to-morrow  and  tell  him  you're 
exactly  the  woman  for  the  place  —  which  is 
no  more  than  the  truth.  As  to  this  experi 
ence  to-night,  I  '11  give  you  twenty  dollars  for 
that.  I  can  make  a  c  special '  out  of  it." 

u  If  you  do,"  said  Miss  Imboden,  with 
childlike  wistfulness,  "  I  hope  you  will  try  to 
make  it  appear  that  the  man  was  acting  ac 
cording  to  his  lights,  and  meant  nothing  but 
kindness.  He  may  have  seen  that  I  looked 
hungry.  At  all  events,  if  he  learns  that  he 
possibly  saved  me  from  the  North  River  — 
is  that  the  one  they  use  ?  —  he  can't  regret 
having  done  it  and  won't  feel  as  if  I  treated 
him  badly." 

Miss  Herrick  laughed. 

"Leave  that  to  me,  my  dear,"  she  an 
swered  reassuringly.  "  I  will  show  him  up 
as  the  Good  Samaritan  of  his  own  deed." 


76 


THE   WIFE   OF   THE 
CANDIDATE 


77 


THE   WIFE  OF  THE   CANDIDATE 

THE  little  convent  chapel  was    brilliant 
with    light    and    flooded    with    music. 

D 

On  the  great  altar  hundreds  of  wax  candles 
blazed,  and  on  every  side  there  were  banks 
of  tall  lilies  whose  perfume  mingled  with  the 
incense  that  added  an  oppressive  element  to 
the  heavy  sweetness  of  the  air.  The  mag 
nificently  solemn  chords  of  the  Stabat  Mater 
came  from  an  organ  hidden  by  a  latticed 
screen. 

The  Dominican  priest  had  finished  his  re 
marks,  his  voice  softening  and  lingering  over 
the  final  words.  His  eyes,  whose  expression 
had  been  calm  almost  to  coldness,  softened 
also  as  he  turned  them  upon  the  white-robed 
figure  at  his  feet.  Their  glance  seemed  to 
convey  the  last  warning  of  the  confessor  and 
friend  to  this  woman  who  was  voluntarily 
giving  up  the  world  for  the  cell  of  a  cloistered 
nun.  He  knew  better  than  others  what  she 
was  renouncing.  He  also  knew  better  the 
79 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

battle  she  would  have  to  wage  before  she 
could  find  the  peace  she  sought.  A  tender 
sympathy  for  the  woman  so  courageously 
entering  upon  this  warfare  crept  into  the  aus 
tere  calmness  of  the  look  he  fixed  upon  her 
as  he  ended  the  remarks  which  were  a  part 
of  the  impressive  ceremonies  of  her  reception 
in  the  great  conventual  order. 

Ruth  Herrick,  sitting  in  a  pew  well  toward 
the  front,  saw  the  look  and  wondered.  To 
her  the  sacrifice  seemed  a  worse  than  needless 
one.  Earlier  in  the  afternoon,  as  she  had 
wandered  through  the  old  convent  garden  and 
marked  the  contrast  of  its  peace  and  quiet  to 
the  city's  roar,  it  had  seemed  to  her  that  one 
might  rest  here  contentedly  for  a  time.  She 
had  felt  almost  in  sympathy  with  the  young 
nun  whose  dramatic  farewell  to  the  world  she 
had  come  to  see.  Then  she  had  gone  into 
the  crowded  chapel,  and  her  mood  had  changed 
as  the  ceremonies  went  on.  They  had 
brought  before  her  very  vividly  all  that  con 
ventual  life  implied. 

From  the  journalistic  point  of  view  she 
rejoiced  in  their  pathos  and  impressiveness, 
which  would  lend  color  and  interest  to  her 
80 


The  Wife  of  the  Candidate 

special  story  for  the  Sunday  "  Searchlight." 
She  mentally  thanked  anew  the  friend 
who  had  secured  her  admission  and  who 
was  now  crying  softly  at  her  side.  Miss 
Van  Orden  was  subject  to  gusts  of  emotion 
which  she  seemed  to  enjoy  at  the  time  and 
which  invariably  left  her  much  refreshed. 
She  was  a  close  friend  of  the  candidate  for 
the  veil,  and  to-day's  attack  was  therefore 
justified.  Miss  Herrick,  acutely  conscious 
of  her  own  want  of  harmony  with  the  gloom 
about  her,  reminded  herself  that  she  was  the 
only  person  present  who  was  a  stranger  to 
the  postulant,  and  also  that  she  was  there 
solely  in  her  reporter's  capacity.  She  was 
not,  however,  wholly  unmoved  by  the  spec 
tacle.  She  had  studied  the  calm  and  beautiful 
face  of  the  central  figure  in  the  drama,  and 
she  felt  that  this  well-poised  woman  of  the 
world  had  not  turned  her  back  on  life  with 
out  fully  realizing  the  step  she  was  taking. 
She  was  giving  up  wealth  and  position  and 
friends.  She  was  burying  great  beauty  and 
many  gifts.  She  was  resigning  all  possibility 
of  wifehood,  motherhood,  or  any  earthly  love 
—  for  what  ?  Miss  Herrick,  with  her  strictly 
6  81 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

practical  views  of  life,  could  not  answer  the 
question.  She  felt  sure  that  the  nun  had 
asked  it  of  herself  and  had  found  the  reply. 

The  reporter  sank  back  in  the  pew  and 
let  her  eyes  rest  again  on  the  slender  figure 
kneeling  at  the  prie-dleu  in  front  of  the  altar 
railing.  The  nun's  face  was  buried  now  in 
her  hands.  The  train  of  her  white  gown 
swept  around  her,  —  a  billowy  mass  of  silk  and 
lace  that  was  reflected  in  the  gleaming  sur 
face  of  the  polished  floor.  Her  long  veil  and 
the  orange-blossoms  in  her  hair  and  on  her 
bosom  looked  oddly  out  of  place,  symbolic 
though  they  were  of  her  marriage  to  the 
Church.  She  was  the  only  postulant,  but 
the  pomp  of  the  function  in  her  behalf  was 
as  great  as  though  many  others  were  taking 
the  veil  with  her.  Miss  Herrick  looked  at 
the  white-robed  priests  before  the  altar,  lis 
tened  to  the  melodious  sighing  of  the  organ 
and  the  sobs  of  the  women  around  her,  and 
felt  dreamily  that  all  this  splendid  ceremony 
was  but  a  proper  recognition  of  the  oblation 
of  one  brilliant  young  life.  How  would  it 
seem  that  night,  she  wondered,  when  the 
music  had  ceased  and  the  lights  had  gone  out 
82 


The  Wife  of  the  Candidate 

and  the  great  convent  lay  dark  and  lonely 
within  its  gray  walls  ?  Would  the  nun,  in 
her  stone  cell,  sleep  in  peace  ?  Or  might 
there  not  be,  after  the  strain  of  the  day  and 
its  last  farewells,  some  haunting  fears  and 
doubts  that  raised  their  heads  too  late  ? 

The  postulant  had  risen,  and  her  friends 
pressed  forward.  The  last  farewells  were  to 
be  spoken  in  a  small  room  adjoining  the 
chapel.  They  were  to  be  last  farewells  in 
very  truth.  Never  again  would  Dolores 
Mendoza,  now  Sister  Ethelbert,  touch  the 
lips  or  the  hands  of  a  friend  in  greeting. 
Once  a  year  one  might  speak  to  her  and  get 
a  glimpse  of  her  face  through  the  convent 
bars.  But  there  could  be  no  closer  meeting. 

They  were  weeping  as  they  crowded 
around  her  in  the  anteroom,  and  Ruth 
Herrick,  swept  there  by  the  energetic  though 
still  subdued  Miss  Van  Orden,  felt  strangely 
out  of  place.  She  lingered  in  the  background 
near  a  little  open  window  that  looked  into 
the  convent  garden.  The  perfume  of  old- 
fashioned  flowers  rilled  the  air,  and  she  heard 
the  cheerful  buzzing  of  the  bees  among  them. 
She  tried  to  keep  her  professional  eye  not  too 

83 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

closely  observant  of  the  partings  around  her. 
From  time  to  time  she  heard  the  sound  of 
Sister  Ethelbert's  voice,  and  she  noticed 
that  in  all  the  leave-taking  its  rich  contralto 
tones  were  the  only  ones  that  were  perfectly 
steady.  In  the  centre  of  the  group  of  friends 
the  new  Dominican  Sister  stood,  a  little  pale 
and  with  a  patient  sweetness  in  her  brown 
eyes,  but  carrying  herself  with  a  noble  dignity 
through  the  trying  ordeal.  They  came  to 
her  one  by  one,  and  she  kissed  each  friend 
twice,  with  a  few  murmured  words  that  were 
full  of  affection.  Then  they  turned  from 
her  sobbing  and  left  the  room. 

"  Are  her  relatives  here  ? "  asked  Miss 
Herrick  in  a  whisper,  as  the  group  grew 
gradually  smaller.  "  I  don't  see  any  one  who 
resembles  her — or  who  could  be  compared  to 
her,  for  that  matter,"  she  added. 

"  No,"  Miss  Van  Orden  replied  promptly, 
"these  are  only  friends.  Her  father  and 
mother  are  dead,  and  the  only  relative  she  has 
lives  somewhere  out  West,  I  believe.  They 
say  they  are  not  on  good  terms.  Dolores 
never  spoke  of  any  living  relatives.  She  had 
plenty  of  money  and  lived  her  own  life  abroad 
84 


The  Wife  of  the  Candidate 

and  here  in  the  East.  She  is  twenty-seven 
now  and  absolutely  her  own  mistress.  Come, 
I  want  you  to  meet  her." 

Before  the  newspaper  woman  could  demur 
she  found  herself  drawn  by  her  friend  toward 
the  nun.  Nearly  everybody  had  gone,  and 
the  splendid  figure  in  bridal  attire  was  already 
moving  toward  the  door.  Miss  Van  Orden, 
spoiled  and  petted  and  a  law  unto  herself,  laid 
a  detaining  hand  lightly  on  her  arm. 

"  Before  you  go,"  she  said,  "  I  want  my 
friend,  Miss  Herrick,  to  meet  you.  Miss 
Herrick  thinks  that  what  you  are  doing  is  all 
wrong,  but  she  is  full  of  admiration  for  the 
way  you  are  doing  it." 

The  worldly  speech  and  the  little  laugh 
that  accompanied  it  tempered  the  inopportune- 
ness  of  the  presentation.  Sister  Ethelbert's 
lips  parted  in  a  quick  smile. 

"  I  regret  there  is  not  time,"  she  said 
brightly,  "to  convince  Miss  Herrick  that 
what  I  am  doing  is  wholly  right."  The 
serenity  of  the  eyes,  fixed  on  the  reporter's 
face  with  a  sweet,  unfaltering  gaze,  went  far 
toward  confirming  Miss  Herrick  in  her 
opinion  that  this  woman  had  her  own  mind 

85 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

very  thoroughly  convinced  on  the  subject. 
After  a  slight  pause  the  nun  added  quietly  :  — 

cc  You  must  not  carry  away  a  false  impres 
sion.  Try  to  believe  that  there  is  happi 
ness  here  for  those  who  seek  it  in  the  right 
spirit." 

She  had  retained  the  girl's  hand  in  her 
own,  and,  as  she  finished  speaking,  on  a 
gracious  impulse  bent  her  head  and  lightly 
kissed  this  stranger  who  doubted  the  wisdom 
of  her  course,  first  on  one  cheek,  then  on 
the  other. 

"  Good-by,"  she  said,  with  the  same 
sweet  gravity. 

The  long  train  of  heavy  white  silk  swept 
over  the  polished  floor  with  a  worldly  rustle 
as  she  walked  away.  A  moment  more,  and 
the  last  of  the  glistening  fabric  had  vanished 
through  an  open  door,  which  closed  upon  the 
stately  figure.  Sister  Ethelbert  had  left  the 
world. 

Ruth  Herrick  drew  a  long  breath  and 
turned  to  Miss  Van  Orden. 

"  Do  you  realize,"  she  asked,  with  brusque 
earnestness,  "  that  that  woman  gave  the  last 
precious  moments  of  her  life  in  the  world  to 
86 


The  Wife  of  the  Candidate 

me  ?  I,  a  perfect  stranger  to  her,  had  her 
last  words  and  her  last  kiss.  It  does  n't  seem 
right.  Why  did  you  bring  me  forward  ?  " 

Miss  Van  Orden  laughed  and  drew  her 
young  friend  out  into  the  quiet  of  the  con 
vent  garden.  She  had  recovered  her  equa 
nimity  and  was  prepared  to  look  at  all  things 
in  a  cheerful  and  philosophic  light. 

u  My  dear  girl,"  she  said  lightly,  "  don't 
be  absurd.  There  is  no  one  here  who  had  a 
better  right  to  her  last  moment  than  you.  Of 
course  we  are  all  her  friends,  but  we  have  only 
the  claim  and  affection  of  friends.  Dolores 
was  one  of  the  most  brilliant  and  fascinating 
women  I  ever  met.  You  see,  I  already  use 
the  past  tense.  She  had  insisted  on  burying 
herself,  and  we  have  harrowed  our  souls  by 
attending  her  funeral.  Everybody  will  now 
go  home  and  eat  dinner  with  a  wholly  normal 
appetite.  It  's  the  way  of  the  world.  One 
can't  afford  to  mourn  even  as  much  as  one 
ought  to.  I  am  going  to  get  some  of  that 
pink  lemonade  the  lay  sisters  are  offering 
visitors  in  the  reception-room,  and  bring  it 
here  to  drink  in  this  hallowed  spot.  Don't 
you  want  some  ?  " 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

"Thank  you,  yes,"  replied  the  younger 
woman,  settling  herself  comfortably  in  the 
shadow  of  the  fountain.  The  heat  of  the 
day  was  over,  and  the  twilight  hour  in 
the  scented  garden  was  very  grateful. 

"  I  am  sure  there  must  be  somebody," 
she  mused,  "  who  really  loves  that  woman, 
and  whose  heart  is  the  one  that  is  pained 
most  by  the  ceremony  to-day.  That  is  the 
person  who  ought  to  have  had  those  very  last 
words  and  that  last  caress  which  were  given 
to  me.  But  it  was  n't  my  fault." 

More  than  a  year  later  the  country  was 
in  the  throes  of  a  great  political  campaign. 
It  had  been  conclusively  proven  by  the  news 
papers  that  the  opponent  of  the  candidate 
whose  cause  they  espoused  was  a  man  abso 
lutely  unfit,  mentally  and  morally,  for  the 
high  place  he  sought,  and  whose  administra 
tion,  were  he  elected,  would  stand  forever  as 
a  black  page  in  the  nation's  history.  Local 
news  was  cut  to  pieces  or  pushed  wholly 
aside  to  make  room  for  the  national  questions 
of  the  day  and  their  countless  ramifications. 
On  several  occasions  during  the  great  strug- 
88 


The  Wife  of  the  Candidate 

gle,  Fame,  passing  by  many  who  had  worked 
and  waited  for  its  coming,  paused  beside  some 
unknown,  and,  bringing  him  forward,  gave 
him  a  place  on  the  platform  toward  which 
the  eyes  of  the  country  were  turned. 

When  Fame  laid  such  hands  on  the  Hon 
orable  Robert  Eddington  and  thrust  him  before 
the  public's  gaze,  the  Honorable  Robert's 
wife  was  probably  the  one  person  in  the  land 
not  acutely  surprised.  Mrs.  Eddington  ad 
mired  her  husband  very  much,  and  had  long 
felt  that  the  country  would  some  day  need 
his  services.  When  the  summons  came  she 
was  therefore  not  wholly  unprepared,  and  she 
was  able  to  support  her  husband  through  the 
first  painless  shock  of  the  experience.  That 
was  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  Mrs.  Edding- 
ton's  work  in  the  campaign.  She  was  but  little 
more  than  twenty-eight,  beautiful,  and  socially 
popular.  She  knew  nothing  about  politics, 
and,  beyond  a  serene  confidence  in  her  hus 
band's  election  to  the  high  office  for  which  he 
had  been  nominated,  cared  nothing  about  it. 
She  therefore  permitted  the  Honorable  Robert 
to  manage  his  own  campaign  with  the  kind 
assistance  of  his  friends.  If  she  occasionally 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

accompanied  him  on  electioneering  tours  it 
was  only  to  be  with  him ;  she  preferred  the 
quiet  of  her  elegant  home  and  the  society  of 
her  little  boy.  She  was  enjoying  both  one 
October  evening  when  Miss  Herrick,  who 
had  been  sent  West  by  "  The  Searchlight " 
to  write  campaign  specials,  called  to  interview 
her  on  the  position  of  American  women  in 
politics. 

Mrs.  Eddington  knew  nothing  about  the 
position  of  American  women  in  politics,  and 
frankly  said  so  to  the  young  reporter  whom 
she  received  very  graciously,  coming  as  she 
did  with  a  letter  of  introduction  from  a  friend. 
The  wife  of  the  candidate  placidly  avowed 
that  she  held  old-fashioned  views  on  the 
woman  question.  She  afforded  the  journalist, 
however,  a  very  good  two-column  interview 
on  "  Woman  in  the  Home,"  which  made  the 
copy-reader  sniff  contemptuously,  and  brought 
a  flood  of  commendatory  letters  to  the  editor 
from  the  "  Constant  Readers  "  of  the  paper. 

As  Mrs.  Eddington  talked,  Miss  Herrick 
studied  her  face,  and  was  impressed  by  its 
striking  resemblance  to  one  she  had  seen  be 
fore.  Those  brown  eyes  with  the  peculiar 
90 


The  Wife  of  the  Candidate 

glint  in  them  when  the  woman  laughed,  the 
fashion  in  which  the  long  lashes  curled  down 
on  the  cheek,  the  beautiful  contour  of  the 
face,  the  waves  of  black  hair  coiled  low  on 
the  neck,  the  turn  of  the  head,  a  certain  trick 
of  speech,  the  very  intonations  of  the  voice 

—  where  had  she  met  them  all  ? 

"  You  must  not  carry  away  a  false  impres 
sion,"  said  her  hostess,  as  the  interview  drew 
to  a  close,  and  her  listener  had  the  odd  sensa 
tion  of  having  heard  her  say  this  some  time 
in  the  past.  Mrs.  Eddington,  seeing  the 
reporter's  puzzled  expression,  smiled  —  and 
suddenly  the  rich  tones  of  the  library,  lit  up 
by  the  cheerful  glow  from  the  open  grate, 
faded  away,  and  a  cold,  bare  room  opening  off 
a  convent  garden  took  its  place.  The  white- 
robed  figure  standing  there  had  said  the  same 
words  with  the  same  voice,  the  same  gesture, 

—  yes,  the  same    smile.      Miss   Herrick  re 
membered. 

It  was  with  a  new  thrill  of  interest  that  she 
looked  again  at  the  face  before  her.  How 
vivid  the  resemblance  was  !  But  the  interview 
was  over  and  she  closed  her  notebook.  Her 
hostess,  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  was  regard- 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

ing  her  intently.  Outside,  a  band  played 
national  airs  as  a  delicate  compliment  to  the 
candidate,  who  had  just  returned  from  a  trip 
through  the  State,  and  there  were  already 
growing  shouts  for  a  speech  from  the  en 
thusiastic  townsmen  who  had  assembled  to 
welcome  him  home. 

"  If  you  don't  mind,"  said  Mrs.  Eddington, 
with  a  slight  foreign  shrug,  "  I  should  like  to 
know  if  there  is  any  special  reason  for  your 
looking  at  me  so  intently." 

"  Was  I  staring  ?  I  —  I  beg  your  par 
don,"  stammered  the  newspaper  woman.  u  I 
could  n't  help  it.  From  the  moment  I  saw 
you  I  've  been  trying  to  recall  where  I  could 
have  seen  a  face  like  yours  before,  and  it  has 
just  come  to  me.  The  resemblance  is  most 
extraordinary." 

"Really,"  murmured  the  other  woman, 
with  wonder.  She  had  bent  down  as  if  to 
speak  to  her  little  son,  who  stood  at  her  knee, 
but  there  was  a  sudden  flash  of  interest  in  her 
eyes. 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Herrick,  thoughtfully, 
her  eyes  still  fastened  on  the  other.  "  It  was 
a  nun  —  the  central  figure  of  the  most  dra- 
92 


The  Wife  of  the  Candidate 

matic  ceremony  I  ever  witnessed.  I  saw  her 
take  the  veil  and  enter  a  community  of  the 
most  severely  cloistered  Dominican  nuns  a 
year  ago.  But  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  must 
not  detain  you  any  longer."  She  had  risen 
and  extended  her  hand  in  farewell,  but  her 
hostess,  instead  of  taking  it,  motioned  to  her 
to  resume  her  seat. 

cc  Don't  go,  please,  until  you  have  told  me 
all  about  that  —  nun,"  she  said  hastily,  and 
with  a  strained  note  in  her  voice  which  the 
ear  of  the  reporter  instantly  detected.  "I  — 
I  should  like  to  hear  it.  It  must  have  been 
very  interesting."  She  lifted  her  boy  into 
her  lap  as  she  spoke,  and  the  dancing  flames 
of  the  open  fire  on  the  hearth  touched  his 
yellow  head  with  brighter  tints  of  gold.  Out 
side  the  band  was  playing  still,  its  softer 
tones  almost  drowned  by  the  voices  of  the 
crowd. 

"  You  're  quite  sure  it  won't  bore  you  ?  " 
asked  the  newspaper  woman,  sinking  into  her 
seat  again.  An  idea  had  flashed  into  her 
mind  and  she  felt  her  way  cautiously. 

"  Quite,"  echoed  her  hostess.  "  Please  tell 
me  all  about  it.  There  must  be  something  of 
93 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

more  than  usual  interest  in  the  character  of  a 
woman  who  gives  up  everything  for  a  con 
ventual  life."  She  had  regained  her  self-con 
trol  and  her  voice  and  glance  were  steady,  if 
hurried. 

"  She  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful  women 
I  ever  saw,"  began  Miss  Herrick,  quietly, 
"  and  I  have  been  told  she  was  brilliant  and 
charming  as  well.  I  had  never  met  her  be 
fore,  and  I  had  only  a  moment  with  her  then 
as  she  was  saying  a  last  good-by  to  her  friends. 
She  was  so  calm  and  strong  through  the  whole 
dreadful  ordeal  that  my  heart  went  out  to  her. 
It  is  horrible  to  see  such  a  woman  burying 
herself  alive.  She  could  have  done  so  much  in 
the  world  if  she  had  been  content  to  remain 
there.  But  somehow  I  fancied  that  she  had 
been  unhappy.  She  seemed  to  have  no  rela 
tives,  and  though  a  great  many  of  her  friends 
were  there  and  they  wept  a  good  deal,  they 
were  all  cheerful  enough  when  it  was 
over." 

Miss    Herrick    paused,  but    there  was  no 

comment  from  her  hostess.      The  room  was 

growing  dark.     The  firelight,  falling  on  the 

two    figures    in   the    big    chair,    showed    the 

94 


The  Wife  of  the  Candidate 

mother's  face  buried  in  her  little  boy's  soft 
curls. 

"The  friend  who  had  taken  me  there," 
resumed  the  newspaper  woman,  "  swept  me 
into  the  room  in  which  the  farewells  were 
going  on ;  and  when  they  were  over  and 
almost  everybody  was  gone,  she  introduced 
me  to  the  nun.  We  talked  for  a  moment,  and 
then  to  my  surprise  she  kissed  me  good-by  as 
she  had  kissed  the  others.  She  left  the  room 
immediately,  and  so  it  happened  that  I  had 
her  very  last  moment  in  the  world  and  her  last 
caress.  I  told  Miss  Van  Orden  afterward 
that  it  did  n't  seem  right  for  a  stranger  to  get 
such  a  precious  thing  when  it  belonged  by 
every  right  to  somebody  who  really  loved  her. 
Miss  Van  Orden  laughed  and  seemed  to  think 
there  was  no  one  who  would  have  appreci 
ated  it  any  more  than  I  did." 

A  queer  little  quavering  sound  came  from 
the  big  chair.  Miss  Herrick  glanced  at  the 
woman  there,  and  then  turned  her  eyes 
toward  the  fire.  The  suspicion  in  her  mind 
had  become  a  certainty. 

"There  is  not  much  more  to  tell,"  she 
said,  "  except  that  later  we  were  permitted  to 
95 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

look  at  her  through  the  convent  bars.  She 
had  changed  her  wedding-gown  and  orange- 
blossoms  for  the  white  serge  habit  of  the 
Dominican  Order.  On  her  head  she  wore 
a  long  veil,  and  on  that  was  pressed  a  crown 
of  thorns.  There  were  two  gratings  three  or 
four  feet  apart  and  she  was  beyond  the  inner 
one.  We  could  not  so  much  as  touch  her 
finger.  No  friend  ever  can  again,  according 
to  the  rules  of  that  particular  branch  of  the 
Order.  She  was  pale,  almost  ghastly,  after 
the  strain  of  the  day,  and  her  dark  eyes  looked 
very  tired  —  but  she  was  her  royal  self  to  the 
last." 

" '  Her  royal  self.'  That  is  it.  She  was 
always  that  —  my  Dolores." 

Low  as  the  words  were,  Miss  Herrick 
caught  them  and  looked  up.  Mrs.  Edding- 
ton  was  leaning  forward,  forgetful  of  her 
sleeping  son,  staring  at  the  fire  with  unseeing 
eyes.  Its  light  brought  out  in  full  relief  her 
wet  cheeks  and  the  strong  emotion  in  her 
face.  The  reporter  rose  quietly  and  took  the 
sleeping  child  from  his  mother's  lap.  She 
rang  the  bell  and  gave  him  to  the  nurse  who 
responded.  Then  she  went  back  to  her  seat. 
96 


The  Wife  of  the  Candidate 

Mrs.  Eddington,  looking  up  for  the  first  time, 
met  the  other's  dark  gray  eyes.  The  deep 
and  quiet  sympathy  of  their  glance  dispelled 
any  lingering  reluctance  to  laying  bare  her 
heart. 

"We  are  sisters  —  twin  sisters,"  she  said, 
speaking  rapidly  and  with  an  evident  effort. 
"  We  adored  each  other,  but  we  quarrelled. 
There  is  the  whole  story.  We  were  both 
proud,  and  each  refused  to  make  the  first 
advances,  though  both  our  hearts  ached,  I  am 
sure.  Think  of  it !  We  were  all  alone  in 
the  world,  and  yet  we  drifted  apart.  She 
went  abroad  and  studied  ;  I  remained  in  this 
country  and  married.  At  long  intervals  I 
heard  of  her  as  she  must  have  heard  of  me, 
but  our  paths  did  not  cross.  Our  friends, 
our  tastes,  our  environments,  were  all  so  dif 
ferent.  The  only  thing  we  had  in  common 
was  the  memory  of  our  dead  parents  and  the 
affection  for  each  other  that  still  lived  through 
all  the  pride  and  anger  which  tried  to  stifle  it. 
If  I  had  ever  heard  that  she  was  unhappy  or 
in  trouble  I  would  have  written  her  at  once, 
but  the  few  reports  that  came  to  me  repre 
sented  her  as  living  a  full,  rounded,  brilliant, 
7  97 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

happy  life.  There  has  not  been  a  day  in 
which  the  thought  of  her  has  not  been  with 
me,  an  undercurrent  in  everything  I  did  or 
said.  When  I  have  seen  little  children 
together  I  have  thought  of  the  days  when 
Dolores  and  I  played  in  childish  love  and 
happiness,  and  of  the  nights  when  one  of  us 
would  creep  out  of  her  own  little  bed  to  go 
and  sleep  in  the  other's  arms." 

She  stopped  for  a  moment. 

"  Can  you  understand  it  ?  "  she  went  on. 
"  I  cannot.  It  is  one  of  those  incredible 
things  that  happen  in  real  life.  A  year  ago, 
after  I  had  lost  trace  of  her  for  a  long  time, 
she  wrote  me.  It  was  the  first  time  since  we 
were  parted.  The  letter  was  dated  from  the 
convent.  She  had  been  staying  there,  it 
seems.  She  told  me  that  she  had  decided  to 
take  the  veil  and  that  there  was  no  longer 
any  bitterness  in  her  heart  toward  me ;  noth 
ing  but  love.  I  wrote  at  once,  imploring  her 
to  reconsider  her  decision  and  to  come  to  me. 
I  begged  and  entreated  and  humbled  myself 
in  the  dust  —  to  no  effect.  There  was  no 
reply.  I  feel  now  that  they  may  not  have 
allowed  her  to  write  —  and  perhaps  she  did 


The  Wife  of  the  Candidate 

not  even  receive  my  letter.  But  I  was  cut 
to  the  very  heart  by  what  I  thought  her  cruel 
indifference  at  the  time  —  and  I,  too,  tried  to 
forget.  I  have  heard  nothing  of  her  since 
until  to-day.  You  have  brought  me  the  end 
of  the  story.  She  is  dead  to  me  now  in 
deed,  and  I  have  never  realized  until  this 
moment  how  strong  my  hope  has  been  that 
we  should  some  day  come  together  again  — 
my  sister  Dolores  and  I." 

Her  face  was  buried  in  her  hands  as  the 
nun  Ethelbert's  had  been  in  the  convent 
chapel.  Tears  trickled  through  her  ringers, 
and  lent  a  heartless  brilliance  to  the  rings 
that  sparkled  upon  them. 

There  was  a  wild  cheer  from  the  street. 
The  candidate  had  appeared  in  the  balcony 
below,  and  now,  in  the  silence  that  followed 
his  greeting,  he  began  to  make  a  speech.  A 
few  of  the  sonorous,  grandiloquent  periods 
floated  through  the  half-opened  window. 
Mrs.  Eddington  did  not  hear  them.  The 
wife  of  the  candidate  was  never  less  interested 
in  politics  than  at  that  moment. 

u  If  I  could  only  feel  that  she  is  happy," 
she  cried ;  "  but  I  cannot  think  she  is.  Our 
99 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

natures  were  too  much  alike.  Why  should 
I  have  all  and  she  nothing  ?  Think  of  it  — 
husband,  child,  home,  love,  all  mine.  And 
what  has  she  ?  " 

"  She  told  me  she  knew  that  she  was  do 
ing  right,"  Miss  Herrick  said  with  quiet 
force,  "and  she  said  there  was  peace  and 
happiness  in  the  convent  for  one  who  sought 
it  in  the  right  spirit.  And,  pardon  me,  Mrs. 
Eddington,  but  let  me  say  one  thing  before 
I  go."  She  had  risen  again  and  was  looking 
at  the  other  woman  with  a  very  genuine  and 
gentle  sympathy.  Mrs.  Eddington  rose  too, 
regaining  her  self-control  with  a  thorough 
ness  which  made  Miss  Herrick  once  more 
recall  that  other  who  had  renounced  hus 
band,  children,  home,  and  human  love. 

"  I  am  sadly  conscious  that  it  is  not  in  my 
power  to  say  anything  that  can  fully  cheer 
or  comfort  you,"  Miss  Herrick  said  slowly. 
"  But  it  seems  to  me  that  you  and  your  sister 
are  nearer  to-day  than  you  have  been  since 
your  estrangement.  There  is  no  bitterness 
between  you.  She  has  told  you  so  and  you 
feel  none.  Each  of  you  knows  that  there 
is  a  sister's  love  in  the  other's  heart.  You 
100 


The  Wife  of  the  Candidate 

understand  each  other  at  last.  You  can  write 
to  her,  or  you  can  even  see  her  and  tell  her 
so.  And  do  you  not  see  that  there  might 
never  have  been  this  reconciliation  if  she  had 
remained  in  this  great,  busy  world  ?  " 

She  put  out  her  hands.  Mrs.  Eddington 
grasped  them  and  held  them  tightly  pressed 
in  her  own.  Their  position  recalled  to  her 
vividly  a  tender  memory  which  swept  away 
her  self-control.  She  leaned  forward,  and, 
with  quivering  lips,  kissed  the  newspaper 
woman  on  each  cheek. 

"  I  am  sure,"  she  said  brokenly,  "  that 
Dolores  kissed  you  good-by  in  that  way,  in 
our  Spanish  fashion.  You  do  not  mind  if 
I  seem  to  take  that  last  caress  of  hers  in  this 
way,  do  you?  You  know  you  felt  it  be 
longed  to  me." 


101 


MRS.   OGILVIE'S 
LOCAL   COLOR 


103 


MRS.  OGILVIE'S   LOCAL   COLOR. 

"  HT^HE    trouble    with   my    writing,"   said 
JL        Mrs.  Ogilvie,  pensively,  "  is  that  it 
lacks  local  color." 

She  was  leaning  on  Miss  Herrick's  desk 
in  the  city  room,  reading  with  much  self- 
control  a  story  of  her  own  which  had  ap 
peared  in  u  The  Searchlight "  that  morning. 
Not  more  than  half  of  it  had  survived  the 
ruthless  blue  pencil  of  Hunt,  the  copy-reader, 
whose  muttered  words  as  he  had  toiled  over  it 
the  night  before  had  not  been  prayers.  In 
the  interval  between  the  rewriting  of  the  last 
paragraph  and  the  "building  "  of  the  "  head  " 
for  the  article,  that  gentleman  had  refreshed 
himself  by  confiding  to  a  fellow-sufferer  at 
the  next  desk  a  frank  opinion  of  Mrs. 
Ogilvie's  work  which  would  have  been  of 
the  greatest  value  to  her  if  she  had  over 
heard  it. 

"All   I    have    to    do   with  it,"    he   ended 
grimly  as  he   lit  a  cigarette,  "  is  to  cut  out 
105 


Tales  of  the  City   Room 

eighteen  pages  from  the  beginning,  twenty- 
two  pages  from  the  end,  and  rewrite  the 
middle.  If  only  she'd  begin  and  end  her 
stories  in  the  middle  it  would  be  the  salva 
tion  of  us  both  !  " 

Unfortunately  this  admirable  suggestion 
never  reached  the  ears  of  the  woman  reporter 
who  read  her  mutilated  article  the  next  morn 
ing  and  deplored,  as  usual,  the  lack  of  that 
local  color  which  she  was  certain  would  have 
won  the  copy-reader's  admiration  and  stopped 
his  blue  pencil  in  its  impetuous  descent.  She 
propped  her  soft  chin  in  the  palms  of  her 
incompetent  little  hands  and  looked  down  at 
Miss  Herrick  rather  doubtfully  as  she  resumed 
her  confidences. 

u  I  sometimes  think,"  she  said  wistfully, 
"  that  it 's  because  I  have  n't  had  experience 
enough  —  I  mean,  I  haven't  lived  enough 
and  seen  enough.  The  other  newspaper 
women  I  know  seem  to  have  such  dramatic 
lives.  Interesting  things  are  always  happen 
ing  to  them.  Nothing  ever  happens  to  me. 
I  get  little,  unimportant  assignments  that 
don't  count,  though  they  make  me  work 
hard  enough  —  and  when  I  have  finished  I 
1 06 


Mrs.  Ogilvie's   Local  Color 

go  home  to  John.  We  're  so  far  up  in 
Harlem  that  it  does  n't  seem  worth  while  to 
come  downtown  in  the  evening  to  the  theatre 
or  anything  of  that  kind,  and  so  we  stay  at 
home  —  and  I  suppose  we  stagnate.  My 
husband,  you  know,  is  not  strong,  and  I  have 
to  be  very  careful  of  him.  I  don't  regret 
our  quiet  life  —  we  're  very  happy.  But  I 
sometimes  think  I  should  go  about  more  and 
broaden  and  develop  my  mind,  for  the  sake 
of  my  work." 

Her  voice  lingered  fondly  on  the  last  two 
words.  She  was  plainly  fascinated  by  her 
brief  newspaper  experience,  and  Miss  Herrick 
saw  and  marvelled  over  this,  just  as  she  had 
marvelled  six  months  before  when  the  ill- 
prepared  novice  had  taken  her  first  plunge 
into  the  journalistic  whirlpool.  Never  had 
such  a  gay,  inexperienced,  unsophisticated 
little  woman  come  into  the  office.  Bets  were 
freely  offered  that  she  would  leave  before  the 
end  of  the  week  —  an  impression  which  the 
city  editor  fully  shared  until  Thursday  morn 
ing,  when  she  had  brought  him  a  news  u  tip  " 
that  made  him  take  his  feet  off  his  desk  and 
show  other  signs  of  joyful  professional  interest. 
107 


Tales  of  the  City   Room 

As  the  months  passed,  she  had  quietly  taken 
her  place  as  one  of  the  most  indefatigable 
workers  on  the  staff,  —  alert,  enthusiastic,  and 
absolutely  reliable.  In  the  working  up  of  a 
story  she  knew  no  such  word  as  fail.  She 
invariably  secured  her  facts  —  and,  having 
them,  she  set  them  forth  in  a  fine,  large  hand 
and  schoolgirl  style  which  drew  groans  of 
anguish  from  her  newspaper  associates.  There 
was  not  a  touch  of  heart  or  sympathy  in  her 
work.  As  Herforth  put  it,  "She  handled 
the  most  tragic  themes  in  a  manner  that  was 
positively  gay." 

"  She  's  a  charming  little  woman,"  added 
Herforth,  who  was  the  "  star  "  reporter  and 
inclined  to  the  analytic,  "  but,  hang  it  all,  I 
don't  believe  she  has  any  soul.  Nobody 
could  have  and  write  the  stuff  she  turns 
out.  If  something  would  happen  to  shake 
her  up  a  bit  and  knock  into  her  some 
sense  of  what  life  is,  I  believe  she  'd  develop 
wonderfully." 

The  others  lounging  around  the  city  room 

laughed  at  his  vehemence.     They  shared  his 

liking    for    the    "  little    woman,"    especially 

since  they  had  learned  of  the  invalid  husband 

108 


Mrs.  Ogilvie's  Local  Color 

and  of  the  quiet  devotion  with  which  she  bore 
her  share  of  the  struggle  for  a  livelihood. 

"  Look  at  her  now,"  continued  Herforth, 
his  eyes  resting  on  the  slight  figure  by  Miss 
Herrick's  side.  "  Marbury  has  given  her  a 
Sunday  special  to  do  —  that  case  of  the  old 
woman  whose  husband  has  just  died  and 
who's  going  to  the  almshouse  Friday.  It 
ought  to  be  a  great  story  —  but  she  '11  spoil  it. 
It  won't  be  half  so  melancholy  as  our  own 
comic  supplement,"  he  ended  gloomily. 

The  unconscious  object  of  his  criticism 
was  listening  with  much  deference  to  some 
quiet  suggestions  by  Miss  Herrick  as  to  the 
special  story  he  had  mentioned.  "  Try  to 
put  yourself  in  the  old  woman's  place,"  the 
experienced  newspaper  woman  ended.  "  Try 
to  realize  what  it  must  be  to  her  to  face  the 
world  alone  at  eighty-five,  with  husband, 
home,  children,  friends  all  gone.  Put  some 
feeling  into  your  work,  my  dear.  Don't  worry 
about  the  '  local  color.' ' 

Mrs.  Ogilvie  took  these  final  words  out  of 
the  office  with  her  and  thought  them  over  as 
she  rode  uptown  in  the  Broadway  car. 

"  It  is  n't  that  I  lack  sympathy,"  she  mused, 
109 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

"but  somehow  I  can't  express  it.  Perhaps 
the  world  is  n't  really  as  bright  and  beautiful 
as  it  seems  to  me,  but  I  don't  see  why 
I  should  go  out  of  my  way  to  discover 
that.  The  popular  idea  of  '  experience  '  in 
the  office  is  evidently  to  be  broken  on  a 
wheel  a  few  times.  I  don't  believe  my  lit 
erary  style  would  be  improved  by  that.  Be 
sides,  I  'm  horribly  afraid  of  being  sentimental 
or  mawkish." 

As  the  car  was  rounding  "Dead  Man's 
Curve,"  she  heard  the  clang  of  an  ambulance 
bell  and  saw  a  crowd  gather  thickly  in  front 
of  one  of  the  buildings  in  Fourteenth  Street. 
Two  large  policemen  were  trying  to  make 
way  for  several  white-faced  men  who  were 
carrying  a  limp  figure  into  an  adjacent  hall 
way.  As  the  ambulance  rattled  up  to  the 
curb  and  the  crowd  parted,  she  saw  the  great 
safe  which  had  crashed  to  the  ground  and  the 
parted  cable  that  told  the  story  of  the  accident. 
She  felt  a  pang  of  sympathy  for  the  uncon 
scious  victim,  followed  by  a  sudden  faintness 
as  she  realized  what  the  tragedy  might  mean 
in  some  New  York  home.  u  Fancy  what  I 
should  suffer  if  it  were  John,"  she  breathed, 
no 


Mrs.  Ogilvie's   Local  Color 

This  hypothetic  plunge  into  such  an  abyss 
of  despair  made  her  soul  shudder. 

She  was  very  busy  all  day.  She  had  several 
assignments,  one  of  which  necessitated  the 
interviewing  of  a  great  many  persons.  It  was 
after  seven  in  the  evening  when  she  returned 
to  "  The  Searchlight  "  building  and  entered 
the  city  room.  A  hush  seemed  to  fall  on  it  as 
the  little  gray  figure  walked  briskly  toward  the 
city  editor's  desk.  It  was  Ruth  Herrick,  sick 
at  heart  over  the  task  she  had  to  perform,  who 
intercepted  her,  and  putting  her  arm  around 
the  other  woman's  shoulder,  drew  her  into  an 
adjoining  room,  beyond  the  gaze  even  of  the 
sympathetic  eyes  that  followed  them. 

"  I  have  something  to  tell  you,  my  dear 
girl  —  my  dear  girl,"  she  began  falteringly. 
She  could  not  bear  to  meet  the  big  blue  eyes 
that  were  fastened  on  her  face  with  a  look  of 
almost  childish  terror.  "  I  have  bad  news 
for  you  —  you  must  try  to  bear  it  as  bravely 
as  you  can,"  she  went  on.  "  Your  husband 
has  been  injured,  and  you  must  go  to  him  at 
once.  I  will  go  with  you.  I  have  sent  for 
a  cab,  and  as  we  ride  uptown  I  '11  tell  you 
everything.  We  've  been  trying  to  reach 
in 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

you  all  day  long,  but  you  have  been  going  so 
constantly  that  we  could  not  find  you." 

In  after  years  Mrs.  Ogilvie  recalled  every 
small  detail  of  the  ride  on  that  cold  December 
evening.  It  was  snowing  slightly,  and  the 
buildings  they  passed  looked  strangely  unfa 
miliar  through  the  white  mist.  The  street 
sounds  and  the  cries  of  the  newsboys  seemed 
to  come  to  her  ears  from  a  great  distance. 
She  was  dimly  conscious  of  Miss  Herrick's 
words.  As  one  in  a  dream  she  listened 
to  the  story  of  the  falling  of  the  safe,  the 
injury  of  her  husband,  and  his  removal  to 
the  hospital.  The  knowledge  that  she  had 
ridden  past  his  unconscious  form,  leaving 
him  to  be  cared  for  by  strangers,  pierced 
her  numbed  consciousness  like  a  knife. 
The  horror  of  it  shocked  her  into  speech 
at  last. 

u  Is  he  dead  ? "  she  asked,  and  then,  as 
Miss  Herrick  tried  to  answer,  the  strained 
voice  said  from  the  darkness,  "  Never  mind, 
I  understand,"  and  the  two  women  rode  on 
in  silence. 

There  was  nothing  to  do  when  they  reached 
the  hospital  except  to  give  instructions  as  to 

112 


Mrs.  Ogilvie's  Local  Color 

the  disposition  of  what  had  been  John  Ogilvie, 
and  this  was  done  by  two  "  Searchlight  "  men 
who  had  followed  the  newspaper  women 
uptown.  In  their  quiet,  capable  way,  they 
assumed  control  of  the  practical  end  of  the 
situation,  while  the  doctors  and  the  trained 
nurse  who  had  been  with  the  patient  talked 
with  the  widow  in  the  little  reception-room. 

Miss  Herrick  remained  in  the  Harlem 
apartment  that  night  and  listened  to  the 
steady  tramp  of  her  neighbor's  feet  in  the 
next  room.  Up  and  down,  all  night  long, 
they  made  their  weary  journey.  There  was 
nothing  to  be  done.  The  u  little  woman  " 
was  meeting  and  bearing  her  trouble  in  her 
own  way,  and  she  had  temporarily  entrenched 
herself  behind  a  barrier  which  even  the  most 
sympathetic  dared  not  try  to  break  down. 
Three  days  later,  she  laid  her  dead  away  in 
the  little  churchyard  of  the  quiet  town  where 
she  and  John  had  met  and  loved  and  married. 
And  her  associates,  from  u  The  Searchlight  " 
office,  who  had  gone  there  for  the  funeral, 
looked  at  the  black-robed  figure  across  the 
church  and  wondered  if  this  dry-eyed  woman 
with  the  stricken  face  were  really  the  little 
8  113 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

birdlike  creature  who  had  fluttered  about  the 
office,  the  despair  of  the  copy-readers  and  the 
subject  of  Herforth's  prayers.  They  left  her 
there,  at  her  request,  and  a  few  loiterers, 
lingering  long  after  the  others,  saw  her  cross 
ing  the  churchyard  through  the  falling  dark 
ness,  with  the  old  sexton  by  her  side,  their 
footsteps  crackling  on  the  crisp  snow.  He 
had  carried  her  as  a  little  girl,  on  his  shoulder 
—  and  he  obeyed  her  unquestioningly  now. 
He  opened  the  door  of  the  vault  in  which  her 
husband  had  been  temporarily  placed,  and  left 
her  there  alone.  When  he  returned,  an  hour 
later,  she  was  still  there  —  a  crushed,  desolate 
figure  with  its  head  upon  its  knees.  It  was 
very  dark  in  the  vault,  but  through  the  open 
door  one  could  see  the  heartless  sparkle  of 
the  cold  stars.  She  rose  to  her  feet  as  he 
entered  and  grasped  him  by  the  arm. 

"  I  must  see  him  once  more,"  she  cried. 
"  I  will  see  him  just  once  more  and  then  I  '11 
go  away.  I  promise  you.  Only  bring  a 
light  and  let  me  see  him  as  I  say  good-by." 

The  old  man  obeyed  her  dumbly.  Grop 
ing  in  his  pockets  he  found  a  match  and  held 
it  up  to  her.  "  It  's  the  only  one,"  he  said. 
114 


Mrs.  Ogilvie's  Local  Color 

"  If  I  light  it  will  you  come  away  with  me 
as  soon  as  it  goes  out  ?  " 

"  I  promise,"  she  said  dully.  He  lit  the 
match,  and  its  yellow  light  flared  up,  illumi 
nating  the  gray  walls  of  the  vault  and  its 
contents.  She  threw  her  arms  over  the 
casket  in  which  her  husband's  body  lay,  and 
pressed  her  face  against  the  glass  that  divided 
them,  her  eyes  strained  widely  in  this  last 
look.  The  sleeping  face  beneath  the  glass 
looked  very  calm  and  peaceful.  She  saw  it 
fall  into  shadow  as  the  match  burned  down 
and  left  them  in  the  gloom. 

She  groped  her  way  out  into  the  brilliant 
night,  the  old  man  tottering  by  her  side.  He 
did  not  speak  to  her,  but  he  went  with  her 
through  the  cemetery  and  to  the  village  streets, 
along  which  belated  citizens  were  hurrying. 
The  little  shops  they  passed  were  ablaze  with 
lights,  and  through  the  drawn  shades  of  some 
of  the  houses  she  could  see  the  bright  warm 
rooms,  happy  children,  and  holiday  decora 
tions  and  trees.  In  the  streets  were  the 
jingle  of  sleigh-bells  and  the  sound  of  merry 
voices  raised  in  Christmas  greeting. 

The  old  sexton  took  her  to  the  hotel  where 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

she  was  staying  and  left  her  at  the  door  of 
her  room.  He  was  glad  to  see  that  there 
was  a  bright  fire  burning  in  it,  and  that  the 
lamps  were  lit  and  the  atmosphere  was  warm 
and  cosey.  He  did  not  know  that  after  he 
had  gone  she  turned  out  the  lights  and  knelt 
down  by  the  window  with  her  forehead 
against  the  cool  pane,  her  eyes  seeing  only 
the  gleam  of  eloquent  tombstones  standing 
thickly  in  the  Christmas  snow  of  the  cem 
etery  where  John  and  her  heart  were  buried. 
It  would  not  have  especially  interested  him 
if  he  had  known.  Unlike  Mrs.  Ogilvie,  the 
sexton  was  used  to  grief. 

The  city  editor  had  received  a  little  note 
from  Mrs.  Ogilvie,  begging  him  to  let  her 
work  on  without  interruption,  "  for  work," 
she  ended,  "  will  be  my  only  refuge  now." 
He  had  sent  her  several  assignments  with 
journalistic  promptness,  and  with  a  letter  full 
of  almost  human  sympathy.  He  thought  of 
her  suddenly  one  evening  as  he  looked  at  the 
head  of  her  arch-enemy,  Hunt,  the  copy- 
reader,  bent  over  a  story  of  hers  which  he 
had  given  him  to  rewrite.  u  We  want  good 
116 


Mrs.  Ogilvie's  Local  Color 

stuff  out  of  this,"  he  had  said,  without  glanc 
ing  it  over;  "whip  it  into  shape,  old  man, 
and  make  the  very  best  of  it.  There  should 
be  a  lot  of  human  interest  and  pathos  in  it." 

He  noticed  that  Hunt  had  dropped  his  blue 
pencil  and  was  leaning  back  in  his  chair  read 
ing  the  copy  with  a  peculiar  expression  on  his 
tired  young  face.  He  glanced  up  at  the 
city  editor  as  the  latter  stopped  by  his  desk, 
and  said  slowly  :  — 

"  Rewrite  this  story  ?  I  guess  not.  It 's 
one  of  the  best  things  I  Ve  ever  handled. 
It 's  got  all  the  local  color  there  is.  It  's  got 
a  tear  in  every  line  of  it — and,  by  Jove,  it 's 
written  by  Mrs.  Ogilvie  !  " 

"What  did  I  tell  you?"  said  Herforth, 
who  had  come  up  and  was  listening  to  the 
conversation.  He  took  several  pages  of  the 
copy  from  Hunt's  unresisting  hand,  and 
glanced  over  them,  his  lips  puckering  for  a 
whistle  as  he  read.  His  comment,  as  he 
handed  them  back,  defined  the  situation  tersely, 
and  in  a  way  established  Mrs.  Ogilvie's  status 
in  the  office. 

"  That  is  n't  local  color,"  he  said  firmly ; 
"that's  soul!" 

117 


FROM   THE   HAND 
OF   DOLORITA 


FROM  THE  HAND  OF  DOLORITA. 

THE  little  cabin  lay  in  a  hollow  of  the 
uplands,  picturesquely  covered  with 
vines,  whose  autumn-tinted  leaves  waved 
coquettishly  in  the  light  breeze.  Overhang 
ing  it  protectingly  loomed  the  Virginia  moun 
tains,  their  sombre  tops  lost  in  the  mists  of 
gathering  darkness.  A  gleam  of  firelight  fell 
across  the  threshold,  cheering  Ruth  Herrick 
with  its  suggestion  of  warmth  and  homeliness 
as  she  reined  in  her  horse  before  the  open 
door.  Within,  she  could  see  dimly,  among 
the  smoke  from  several  pipes,  the  sprawl 
ing  figures  of  mountaineers,  who  looked  up, 
at  her  approach,  with  the  dumb  indifference 
of  their  kind.  She  remained  mounted  until 
some  one  should  come  to  accord  her  the 
hospitality  she  knew  would  not  be  lacking, 
while  her  guide  kept  a  little  in  the  back 
ground,  equally  confident  that  the  trying 
journey  of  the  day  was  over. 

Miss  Herrick  stated  her  errand  briefly  to 
the  tired-eyed   mountain   woman   whom  the 

121 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

sound  of  her  horse's  hoofs  had  brought  from 
the  cabin.  She  was  a  newspaper  reporter 
from  New  York,  she  said,  making  a  trip 
among  the  Virginia  and  Tennessee  mountains 
in  search  of  "  special  stories  "  for  the  Sunday 
Edition  of  "The  Searchlight."  She  had 
travelled  far  that  day  and  was  tired.  Would 
they  take  her  in  for  the  night  ?  She  asked 
the  question  with  the  smile  which  had  won 
many  concessions  in  her  journalistic  career. 
It  did  not  fail  her  now.  The  woman  stepped 
aside  with  a  slight  reflection  of  it  on  her  own 
worn  face. 

"  Ef  you  'uns  'low  yuh  kin  git  along  'th 
whut  we  Ve  got,"  she  said,  with  an  accent 
of  lowly  mistrust,  motioning  toward  the 
smoke-filled  interior  where  there  was  now 
some  stir  among  the  men. 

Miss  Herrick  followed  her  cheerfully  into 
the  uninviting  atmosphere.  There  was  but 
one  room  visible,  though  a  ladder,  leaning 
against  the  wall,  suggested  another  retreat 
above.  In  the  immense  fireplace  on  one 
side  of  the  cabin  great  logs  were  blazing, 
and  within  the  circle  of  light  and  warmth 
from  these,  the  mountain  family  had  gathered. 
122 


From  the  Hand  of  Dolorita 

Miss  Herrick's  quick  eyes  swept  over  the 
group  as  she  joined  it.  She  recognized  im 
mediately  the  head  of  the  house,  gray-bearded 
and  venerable,  with  a  certain  dignity  of  man 
ner  that  surprised  her  until  she  learned  that 
he  was  the  pastor  and  beloved  leader  of  the 
mountaineers  of  four  counties.  His  daughter 
and  two  sons  lounged  near  him,  one  of  the 
latter  working  with  intermittent  energy  on 
the  construction  of  a  primitive  wooden  chair. 
The  rude  tools  with  which  he  toiled  were 
scattered  over  the  floor  among  bits  of  wood 
and  shavings.  The  daughter,  after  a  silent 
but  comprehensive  inspection  of  the  visitor 
and  her  attire,  rose  stolidly  to  assist  her 
mother  in  the  preparation  of  the  evening 
meal. 

With  a  little  sigh  of  weariness,  the  guest 
sank  into  the  chair  which  the  old  man  indi 
cated  for  her  in  the  glow  of  the  firelight. 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  she  said  gratefully. 
"  The  nearest  settlement,  the  guide  tells  me, 
is  twenty-eight  miles  away,  and  the  roads  are 
very  bad.  I  don't  know  what  I  should  have 
done  if  you  had  not  taken  me  in." 

"We're  right  glad  t'   see  yuh,"  the  old 
123 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

man  assured  her,  simply.  "  You  'uns  hes 
hed  a  right  sma't  trip  'f  you  come  f'm  Big 
Stone  Gap  t'-day.  Reckon  these  cabins  don't 
seem  much  like  N'  York  t'  yuh." 

"  Everything  in  this  part  of  the  country  is 
new  to  me,"  said  Miss  Herrick.  "  I  have 
never  been  in  the  Southern  mountains  before. 
I  find  them  very  interesting." 

The  younger  son,  who  had  not  changed 
his  restful  position  on  the  floor,  now  sat  up 
with  some  determination.  Miss  Herrick  saw 
a  fair  head  turn  toward  her,  an  alert  interest 
in  its  poise. 

"  Did  you  'uns  'low  ye  come  f'm 
N'  York  ?  "  asked  a  startled  voice  from  the 
darkness.  The  reporter  smiled  at  the  artless 
eagerness  in  the  tone,  and  looked  closely  at 
the  speaker.  In  the  flickering  light  from  the 
blazing  logs  his  face  had  a  beauty  that  startled 
her.  She  had  not  expected  to  find  a  moun 
tain  Apollo  hidden  in  these  hills,  but  here  he 
was,  a  superbly  built  young  giant  with  a  face 
of  almost  Hellenic  type.  His  fair  hair  waved 
softly  around  the  finely  shaped  head,  and  the 
dark  blue  eyes  that  looked  at  her  through 
long  and  curling  lashes  had  the  appealing 
124 


From  the  Hand  of  Dolorita 

trustfulness  of  a  child's.  At  his  question  the 
industrious  young  carpenter  on  the  floor 
laughed  jeeringly. 

"  Joe 's  beginnin'  tuh  take  notice,"  he 
said,  glancing  at  the  visitor  with  deep  mean 
ing.  Unlike  his  brother,  he  was  not  hand 
some  ;  but  strength  and  character  showed  in 
his  face,  tanned  and  burned  by  the  mountain 
winds. 

"Joe  'lows  he's  got  a  sweethea't  in 
N'  York,"  he  drawled  teasingly. 

The  young  Apollo's  face  flushed  richly. 
He  twisted  round  on  his  elbow,  and,  turning 
his  back  on  the  group  with  an  elaborate  air 
of  indifference,  fixed  his  eyes  once  more  on 
the  burning  logs.  His  brother  opened  his 
lips  to  speak  again,  but  was  silenced  by  an 
expressive  glance  from  the  head  of  the 
family. 

Miss  Herrick  told  them  that  she  had  lived 
in  New  York  for  eight  years,  although  her 
home,  too,  was  in  the  South.  She  answered 
their  simple  and  numerous  questions  over  the 
evening  meal,  served  primitively  on  a  bare 
pine  table,  and  discussed  facts  that  seemed 
like  fairy-tales  to  these  simple  mountaineers, 
I25 


Tales  of  the  City   Room 

to  whom  New  York  was  but  a  name.  She 
in  her  turn  had  some  surprises.  She  learned 
that  none  of  the  family  had  been  more  than 
twenty  miles  from  home,  that  none  had  ever 
seen  a  railroad  train  or  a  newspaper.  They 
had  heard  these  wonders  discussed  in  the 
mountains  where,  from  time  to  time,  some 
echo  of  the  outside  world  penetrated,  but 
their  conceptions  of  such  marvels  were 
strangely  vague. 

ujoe,"  the  younger  son,  said  little,  but 
throughout  the  evening  Miss  Herrick  was 
conscious  of  the  fixed  regard  of  his  guileless 
eyes.  She  became  strangely  interested  in 
the  young  mountaineer,  as  evidently  clean  of 
mind  and  heart  as  he  was  unconscious  of  his 
striking  beauty.  There  was  a  wistfulness  in 
his  look  which  she  interpreted  rightly.  He 
wished  to  speak  to  her  —  to  ask  her  some 
thing —  and  dared  not.  Once  she  followed 
the  direction  of  his  glance,  and  saw  on  the 
brown  wall  of  the  cabin  a  colored  lithograph, 
time-stained  and  torn  of  edge,  but  conspicu 
ous  as  the  one  decorative  object  in  the  room. 
In  the  dim  light  of  fire  and  tallow  candle  she 
could  not  see  the  subject,  but  she  resolved  to 
126 


From  the  Hand  of  Dolorita 

inspect  the  picture  closely  when  the  meal 
was  finished. 

Joe  approached  her  as  she  stood  before  it 
later  in  the  evening.  There  was  a  curiously 
excited  look  in  his  eyes  as  he  fixed  them  on 
her  face. 

"  Do  —  do  you  'uns  know  her  ?  "  he 
asked,  with  repressed  eagerness. 

Andy,  the  elder  son,  pricked  up  his  ears  at 
the  sound  of  his  brother's  voice  and  turned 
his  mischievous  glance  toward  the  couple. 

"  Joe's  sweethea't  in  N'  York,"  he  laughed, 
indicating  the  painted  figure  with  his  thumb. 
"  He  hain't  seen  her  yit,  but  he  'lows  he  's 
agoin'  out  in  th'  worl'  t'  find  her  when  the 
time  comes.  He 's  mighty  faithful  to  her, 
Joe  is.  He  won't  look  at  any  girl  in  these 
pa'ts.  His  hea't  's  in  N'  York." 

Joe  disregarded  his  brother  with  the  toler 
ant  dignity  of  a  big  mastiff  annoyed  by  a  toy 
terrier. 

"  Do  you  'uns  know  her  ? "  he  repeated 
urgently. 

Miss  Herrick  in  truth  knew  of  her  only  too 
well.  All  New  York,  all  the  world,  in  fact, 
knew  of  the  notorious  Spanish  woman  whose 
127 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

picture  was  the  shrine  of  this  honest  moun 
taineer  in  that  innocent  home.  It  had  pleased 
the  original  to  pose,  on  one  occasion,  with 
a  demure  sweetness  on  her  Madonna-like 
face.  The  look  had  been  caught  in  all  its 
falseness,  and  told  its  lie  to  thousands  in  the 
land  too  ignorant  to  know  it  as  a  pose.  Miss 
Herrick  looked  up  at  the  big  dark  eyes  that 
gazed  so  pensively  back  at  her,  and  wondered 
why  their  baneful  influence  must  be  felt  here, 
of  all  places.  She  recalled,  with  an  inward 
shudder,  the  chain  of  wrong-doing  which  the 
woman  had  wrought.  Disgrace,  ruin,  death, 
had  been  the  portions  dealt  out  by  her  small 
jewelled  hands.  The  newspapers  had  teemed 
with  the  shame  of  it,  and  she  had  gloried  in 
the  advertising.  Miss  Herrick  remembered 
interviewing  her  several  times  and  hearing 
her  comment  on  those  tragedies  of  her  own 
making.  The  soft  lips  that  showed  such  a 
pathetic  curve  in  the  picture  had  set  like  the 
mouth  of  a  snake  on  one  of  those  occasions. 
"  The  fools  !  "  she  had  cried.  "  If  it  had 
not  been  I,  it  would  have  been  some  one  else 
who  ruined  them.  These  mothers'  boys  need 
to  be  —  how  do  you  put  it  ?  —  whipped  into 
128 


From  the  Hand  of  Dolorita 

shape.  If  they  are  worth  anything,  if  they 
have  any  real  manliness,  they  come  out  the 
better  for  being  taken  in  hand  by  a  woman 
of  the  world.  If  they  are  worth  nothing,  the 
world  is  better  rid  of  them." 

Miss  Herrick  looked  at  the  white-haired 
mountain  woman,  meditative  in  the  firelight, 
and  told  herself  that  Nancy  Willis,  who 
could  neither  read  nor  write,  was  more  for 
tunate  than  many  a  rich  and  worldly  mother 
of  her  acquaintance.  She  had  her  fair,  clean- 
souled  boy  buried  safe  among  the  mountains, 
living  the  free  outdoor  life  of  a  young  faun. 
It  was  a  far  cry  from  New  York  to  these 
Virginia  peaks.  Surely  even  Dolorita's  ma 
lignant  influence  could  not  blast  him  here. 

She  answered  the  mountaineer's  question 
as  fully  as  possible. 

"  Yes,  I  know  her,"  she  said,  in  a  matter-of- 
fact  tone.  "  I  suppose  I  may  say  that  I  know 
her,  for  I  have  often  interviewed  her  in  my 
professional  capacity,  —  that  is,  she  has  told 
me  things  she  wanted  to  have  me  put  in  the 
paper,"  added  Miss  Herrick,  correctively, 
altering  her  phrase  to  the  comprehension  of 
her  hearer.  "  She  is  a  dancer,"  she  con- 
9  129 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

tinued.  "  She  dances  in  public  to  amuse 
people,  —  as  Salome  danced  before  Herod  in 
the  Bible,  you  know." 

Miss  Herrick  rather  prided  herself  on  this 
touch.  She  had  noticed  the  well-worn  Bible 
on  the  old  minister's  pine  table,  and  she  felt 
that  the  mountain  family  was  thoroughly 
familiar  with  it.  She  hoped  the  eager  boy 
beside  her  would  grasp  the  significance  of 
her  illustration.  He  proved  that  he  did,  in 
part  at  least,  by  flushing  scarlet.  Then  he 
rose  to  the  challenge  with  loyal  warmth. 

"  She  's  good,"  he  said,  with  quiet  convic 
tion.  "  Any  one  can  see  that,  jes'  t'  look  at 
her." 

His  simple  faith  touched  and  silenced  the 
newspaper  woman. 

"  Let  him  dream,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"  After  all,  it  can  do  no  harm.  It  is  n't  the 
woman  he  loves  ;  it 's  what  he  thinks  she 
is.  Such  an  ideal  in  his  life  may  be  a  good 
influence.  It  would  even  up  matters  a  little 
if  his  love  for  Dolorita  brought  out  the  best 
that  is  in  him.  The  same  influence  has 
brought  out  the  worst  there  was  in  others, 
often  enough." 

130 


From  the  Hand  of  Dolorita 

She  wandered  out  of  the  cabin  and  into 
the  clearing  before  it,  where  she  rested  her 
elbows  on  the  top  round  of  the  log  fence  and 
gave  herself  up  to  the  charm  of  the  scene 
about  her.  In  the  light  of  the  full  moon 
floating  above,  every  object  in  the  little  glen 
stood  out  with  vivid  distinctness.  On  all 
sides  towered  the  mountains,  from  whose 
mysterious  depths  came  the  long-drawn, 
melancholy  cries  of  woodland  things.  The 
stars  that  sparkled  so  keenly  in  the  crisp  at 
mosphere  seemed  very  near.  New  York  and 
the  worries  of  every-day  life  were  strangely 
remote.  Ruth  Herrick  drew  a  long  breath 
and  thanked  the  fortune  that  had  borne  her 
out  of  the  turmoil  of  Park  Row  for  a  restful 
interval  in  this  ideal  spot  so  close  to  nature's 
heart. 

The  sagging  rail  under  her  elbows  bent  as 
another  pair  of  arms  was  placed  upon  it. 
The  mountain  Adonis  had  found  his  oppor 
tunity  at  last.  He  knew  nothing  of  the 
gentle  art  of  approaching  by  degrees  the  sub 
ject  near  his  heart.  He  came  to  the  point 
with  characteristic  simplicity. 

"  You  'uns  'lowed    in    thar  thet  she  wuz 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

a  dancin'  woman,"  he  began.  "  I  Ve  ben 
studyin'  'bout  that  sense  ye  spoke,  an'  I  want 
to  tell  you  'uns  haow  I  feel  'bout  Her.  You 
'uns  kin  tell  Her  some  day,  if  so  be  I  cyan't. 
Andy  told  ye  thet  I  'm  goin'  out  in  th'  worP 
t'  find  her.  I  aim  t'  do  thet." 

He  stopped  for  a  moment  as  if  for  com 
ment  from  his  listener,  but  she  did  not  speak. 

"  Hit 's  a  long  way  to  N'  York,"  he  went 
on  slowly,  "  en  p'raps  I  cyan't  git  thar. 
P'raps  if  I  did  git  thar  she  would  n't  hev  me. 
I  dunno.  Our  customs  is  differ't  frum  yourn. 
A  man,  he  wuz  a  traveller,  come  yere  oncet 
'n  tol*  us  about  'em.  That  wuz  six  years 
ago,  but  I  haint  fergot.  He  hed  a  picture  uv 
Her,  too,  'en  he  give  it  tuh  me,  'cos  he  seed 
I  liked  it." 

He  stopped  again.  Miss  Herrick  was  still 
silent,  awaiting  the  end  of  the  strange  heart 
confidence. 

"Yere  in  the  maountains,"  he  resumed, 
"  ef  a  man  takes  a  liking  to  a  gyrl  he  tells 
her  so,  en  ef  she  's  took  a  liking  to  him  they 
build  their  cabin,  'n  marry,  'n  live  in  it,  'n  air 
ez  happy  ez  the  good  Lord  lets  'em  be. 
The  's  a  lot  uv  comfort  in  puttin'  up  a  cabin 
132 


From  die  Hand  of  Dolorita 

fer  the  right  woman.  Andy  's  doin'  it  naow. 
He  's  makin'  chairs  fer  it,  'n  I  help  him  when 
I  kin.  But  I  ain't  never  seed  but  one  woman 
I  'lowed  I'd  like  to  make  a  home  fer  —  an' 
thet  's  Her." 

Miss  Herrick  changed  her  position  rest 
lessly.  The  situation  touched  her  sympathies, 
but  she  was  keenly  conscious  of  its  grotesque 
side.  Before  her  mind's  eye  came  a  sudden 
vision  of  Dolorita  as  she  had  last  seen  her, — 
soft  exquisite  animal,  in  the  luxurious  lair  she 
had  made  for  herself.  Costly  lace  enveloped 
her,  diamonds  flashed  on  her  hair,  throat, 
fingers,  and  bare  arms — even  from  the 
buckles  on  the  little  shoes,  which  alone  cost 
more  money  than  Joseph  Willis  had  ever 
seen.  This  indolent,  sensuous  Thais,  the  one 
woman  in  the  world  for  whom  he  "  'lowed  " 
he  'd  build  a  cabin  here  in  these  lonely 
mountains  ! 

Miss  Herrick  looked  up  into  the  young 
man's  frank  eyes.  She  was  not  a  small 
woman,  but  they  were  far  above  her.  The 
expression  of  perfect  trust  she  saw  in  them 
moved  her  to  answer  him  as  simply  and  as 
directly  as  he  had  talked  to  her. 
133 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

"  Here  in  the  mountains,  my  dear  boy," 
she  said,  "  people  are  what  they  seem  to  be. 
They  are  nature's  sons  and  daughters,  and 
the  truth  is  in  them.  c  Out  in  the  world/  as 
you  say,  it  is  often  different.  Men  and 
women  say  what  they  do  not  think  and  act 
what  they  do  not  feel,  and  we  call  it  refine 
ment  and  cultivation  and  civilization.  It  is 
not  so  with  all,  thank  Heaven.  Some  are 
honest  and  true,  and  they  keep  alive  in  us  the 
spirit  of  brotherhood  that  we  all  need.  But 
the  lack  of  more  universal  sincerity  and 
loyalty  makes  life  very  hard  for  us  sometimes. 
We  are  deceived  in  the  persons  we  love,  and 
we  find  out  that  we  have  loved  not  them,  but 
what  we  thought  they  were.  That  is  your 
case.  You  have  thought  and  dreamed  about 
this  woman  for  six  years.  She  has  grown  to 
be  something  very  beautiful,  very  sweet,  very 
real,  in  your  life.  That  is  because  she  was 
rooted  in  your  heart  and  drew  those  qualities 
from  it.  Few  women  could  realize  your 
dream  of  her  —  least  of  all  Dolorita.  She  is 
not  in  one  single  respect  what  you  think  she 
is.  You  are  a  strong  man.  You  could  not 
show  your  strength  in  a  finer  way  than  by 
134 


From  the  Hand  of  Dolorita 

uprooting  this  woman  from  your  mind  and 
heart.  Forget  her.  There  are  sweet  true 
girls  here  among  the  mountains.  There  is 
surely  one  among  them  who  could  make  you 
happy.  Do  as  your  father  and  grandfathers 
have  done  before  you.  Marry  and  live  here 
in  your  mountains  contentedly  among  your 
own  people." 

He  listened  in  silence  until  she  ended,  his 
eyes  on  the  distant  hills.  Then  he  looked 
down  at  her,  a  slow  smile  transfiguring  his 
face. 

"You  'uns  is  good  t'  tell  me  right  out 
whut  ye  think,"  he  said  gratefully.  "  But  I 
reckon  it 's  best  fer  me  t'  find  aout  things  fer 
m'self.  Father  'lows  we  don't  gain  much  by 
the  experience  uv  others,"  continued  this 
novice  philosopher  of  the  mountains,  "  'n  I 
reckon  he 's  right.  It 's  too  late  t'  talk 
abaout  uprootin'  the  liking  I  have  fer  Her. 
Ye  might  ez  well  tell  me  t'  uproot  thet  tree 
'ith  m'  hands." 

He  indicated  a  sturdy  oak  near  them  as  he 
spoke. 

u  I  reckon  I  '11  give  her  th'  chanst  t'  send 
me  back  yere,  ef  she  wants  ter,"  he  con- 
135 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

eluded  proudly.  "  Does  she  live  in  N'  York 
naouw  ?  Th'  traveller  man  'lowed  she  wuz 
thar  most  uv  th'  time." 

"She  comes  every  year,"  admitted  Miss 
Herrick.  "  Yes ;  she  is  there  now,"  she 
added  quickly,  as  she  recalled  the  lurid  posters 
and  placards  that  had  heralded  the  glad  tidings 
to  the  metropolis. 

"  I  reckon  I  '11  come  an'  find  her,"  re 
peated  the  young  man  quietly,  as  his  final 
word. 

Miss  Herrick  found  herself  thinking  of  his 
decision  after  she  had  left  his  home  the  next 
morning.  She  reined  in  her  horse  at  a  point 
in  the  road  high  above  and  looked  down  at 
the  small,  peaceful  cabin  from  whose  chimney 
the  smoke  was  slowly  curling. 

"  It  would  be  like  her  to  take  him  up  for  a 
time,"  she  mused,  "  if  the  novelty  of  the  situa 
tion  appealed  to  her.  It  is  n't  every  day  that 
an  untamed  mountain  Apollo  falls  at  her  feet. 
Then  after  she  tired  of  him,  he  would  probably 
come  back  here  and  blow  out  his  brains,  and 
incidentally  break  his  mother's  heart." 

A  bird  in  the  branch  above  her  suddenly 
poured  forth  a  jubilant  flood  of  song.  It  was 

136 


From  the  Hand  of  Dolorita 

like  a  native's  protest  against  the  thought. 
Miss  Herrick  laughed  at  the  interruption. 

"That's  right,"  she  said.  "  We  won't 
borrow  trouble." 

She  cast  a  last  glance  at  the  lowly  home  in 
its  opulent  setting  of  autumn  foliage,  and  at 
the  hills  beyond.  Somewhere  below  she 
heard  the  gurgle  of  a  mountain  brook,  hurry 
ing  toward  the  river.  There  was  a  keen 
exhilaration  in  the  morning  air.  Her  horse 
felt  it  as  she  did,  and  neighed  impatiently  to 
be  off.  She  settled  herself  more  firmly  in  the 
saddle,  chirruped  to  him  cheerily,  and  with  a 
spring  they  started  on  their  long  journey  back 
to  the  haunts  of  men. 

One  of  the  boys  in  "The  Searchlight" 
office  came  to  her  three  weeks  later,  his 
round  eyes  rounder  than  ever  with  the  novelty 
of  his  message. 

"  A  big  young  fellow  wants  to  see  you, 
Miss  Herrick,"  he  said.  "  He  ain't  got  no 
card,  but  he  says  you  know  him.  He  says 
his  name's  Willis  and  that  he  comes  from 
the  Virginia  mountains." 

Miss  Herrick  looked  up  from  her  work 
with  a  sigh.  This  was  u  coming  out  in  th' 


Tales  of  the  City   Room 

world  tub  find  Her,"  without  a  doubt.  It  had 
seemed  such  a  remote  possibility  down  there 
among  the  mountains,  but  here  he  was. 

"  Show  him  up,  please,"  she  said  to  the  boy 
with  a  regretful  glance  at  the  story  she  was 
writing. 

He  came  blithely,  with  his  swinging  moun 
tain  stride,  his  free,  outdoor  air,  his  touching 
unconsciousness  of  his  homespun  back-woods 
garb. 

"  Did  n't  'low  you  'd  see  me  so  soon,  did 
yuh  ? "  he  asked,  as  they  shook  hands. 

He  dropped  into  the  seat  she  indicated  and 
plunged  at  once  into  the  only  subject  in  the 
world  for  him. 

"  I  jest  'lowed  I  'd  come  right  along,"  he 
said.  "  You  'uns  said  she  wuz  yere  naouw 
'n  only  come  oncet  a  year,  so  I  sold  th'  colt 
at  th'  settlement  an'  took  whut  money  I  hed 
'n  come.  I  got  yere  this  mornin'  'n  I  want 
you  'uns  tub  tell  me  jest  whar  she  is  so  I  kin 
find  her  right  off." 

Miss  Herrick  mentioned  the  name  of  the 

hotel  where  the  dancer  was  staying  and   gave 

him  explicit  instructions  as   to   how    to    get 

there.     She  felt  sick  at  heart  as  she  looked  at 

138 


From  the  Hand  of  Dolorita 

him,  but  there  was  plainly  nothing  to  be  done 
but  let  him  "find  her"  after  his  own  fashion. 
She  watched  him  step  into  the  elevator  and 
drop  from  sight.  Then  she  wrote  Dolorita  a 
note,  which  was  a  model  in  its  way  and  over 
which  the  Spanish  dancer  frowned  reflectingly 
for  almost  two  minutes  that  afternoon.  A 
strong  appeal  to  the  woman  seemed  the  only 
course.  "  If  there  's  any  good  left  in  her," 
mused  Miss  Herrick,  "  and  if  the  note  reaches 
her  at  an  opportune  time,  it  may  have  some 
effect.  If  not,  I  Ve  done  all  I  can." 

Dolorita's  probable  plan  of  action  unrolled 
itself  before  her. 

u  If  she  's  in  a  good  humor  when  he  calls, 
and  if  the  situation  amuses  her,"  she  thought, 
"  she  '11  give  him  seats  for  the  performance 
to-night.  He  '11  have  an  opportunity  to  see 
his  idol  in  her  glory,"  reflected  the  newspaper 
woman,  grimly.  She  was  so  certain  of  Dolo 
rita's  course  that  she  dropped  into  the  music 
hall  at  which  the  latter  was  performing,  about 
ten  o'clock  that  night,  to  have  the  satisfaction 
of  verifying  her  prediction.  Almost  the  first 
object  she  saw  was  the  fair  head  of  the  young 
mountaineer,  dimly  outlined  through  the  mists 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

of  smoke  about  him.  He  sat  in  a  box  near 
the  stage.  Two  tired-looking  young  men  in 
evening  clothes  were  with  him.  Unabashed 
by  the  novelty  of  the  scene  or  the  blare  of  the 
band,  Joseph  Willis  was  talking  rapidly,  his 
eyes  radiant,  his  white  teeth  flashing  in  his  in 
fectious  smile.  Dolorita  had  not  yet  come 
on,  but  as  Miss  Herrick  settled  herself  in  her 
seat  the  dancer's  number  went  up  in  the 
announcement  rack,  and  large  cards,  emblaz 
oned  with  her  name,  were  hung  on  each  side 
of  the  curtain.  The  band  struck  into  a 
tingling  Spanish  dance,  and  the  curtain  rose 
on  an  empty  stage  with  a  background  of 
Andalusian  scenery.  Out  from  the  wings 
came  the  favorite  of  the  hour,  and  as  the 
superb  figure  in  red  and  gold  appeared,  a  roar 
of  greeting  went  up  from  a  thousand  throats 
and  rolled  in  a  wave  of  sound  across  the 
footlights.  The  melting  black  eyes  of  the 
"  wickedest  woman  in  Spain "  swept  lan- 
guishingly  over  the  parquette,  then  turned  for 
a  moment  to  a  box  just  opposite  where  a 
heart  and  soul  looked  back  at  her  from  a  pair 
of  hungry  blue  ones.  A  queer  little  smile 
curved  her  lips.  Then  she  glanced  at  the 
140 


From  the  Hand  of  Dolorita 

leader  and  threw  herself  into  the  dance  that 
had  lifted  her  from  the  gutters  of  Seville  and 
brought  Europe  and  America  to  her  feet. 

Miss  Herrick,  who  had  seen  her  many 
times,  decided  that  she  had  never  danced  so 
well  before.  A  number  of  Spaniards  sat  in 
the  front  rows,  whose  excited  cries  in  her 
own  tongue  roused  Dolorita  to  efforts  that 
electrified  the  house.  Men  stood  up  in  their 
seats  and  shouted,  while  flowers  rained  upon 
the  vivid  figure  that  flashed  about  the  stage, 
the  personification  of  the  fire  and  passion  of 
Spain. 

In  the  midst  of  it  all,  Miss  Herrick  glanced 
up  at  the  box  where  the  young  mountaineer 
sat.  His  fair  head  had  disappeared,  but  as 
she  looked  more  closely,  she  saw  that  his  face 
was  buried  in  his  arm,  which  rested  on  the 
ledge  of  the  box.  His  companions  had  for 
gotten  him  and  were  shouting  wildly  with  the 
others.  Miss  Herrick  turned  away  wonder- 
ingly.  As  the  audience  dispersed  after  the 
performance  she  lingered  a  little,  looking 
about  for  her  protege.  He  came  down  the 
long  stairs  with  the  blase  young  men,  his 
heroic  figure  towering  above  them.  He  had 
141 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

regained  his  shaken  composure,  and  was 
listening  quietly  to  the  talk  of  one  of  them, 
who  was  gesticulating  with  southern  vehe 
mence.  The  newspaper  woman  saw  the  three 
step  into  a  carriage  and  drive  around  to  the 
stage  door. 

"  Dolorita  has  asked  them  all  to  supper," 
she  said  to  herself. 

She  went  home,  revolving  many  things  in 
her  mind.  Her  thoughts  turned  with  poig 
nant  persistence  to  the  picture  of  Nancy 
Willis,  placidly  dreaming  in  her  chimney 
corner.  She  also  pictured  Andy,  fashioning 
uncouth  chairs  for  his  bride's  cabin. 

"Ef  Joe  ever  comes  to  N'  York  you  'uns 
'11  look  out  fer  him,  wunt  yuh  ?  "  the  moun 
tain  mother  had  asked,  and  Miss  Herrick  had 
accepted  so  improbable  a  trust  with  the  ready 
unconcern  of  perfunctory  kindness.  She  told 
herself  now,  as  she  walked  briskly  toward 
Broadway,  that  one  of  the  wisest  things  in 
life  is  to  allow  others  to  manage  their  own 
affairs  and  that  it  was  not  her  place  to  inter 
fere  in  this  one.  Whereupon  she  promptly 
decided  to  call  on  Dolorita  in  the  morning. 

That  young  woman  received  her  in  the 
142 


From  the  Hand  of  Dolorita 

seclusion  of  her  boudoir,  where  several  women 
ministered  to  her  needs.  One  brushed  her 
wavy  black  hair  until  it  shone,  a  second 
polished  her  finger-nails,  while  a  third  sewed 
busily  on  a  mysterious  combination  of  spangles 
and  tarlatan.  Around  her  were  strewn  the 
morning  newspapers,  containing  accounts  of 
her  ovation  the  night  before.  The  reading 
of  these,  just  completed,  had  left  Dolorita  in 
a  most  sunny  mood.  She  received  Miss 
Herrick  with  Andalusian  warmth  of  manner, 
beneath  which  lay  a  genuine  friendliness. 

"  I  know  why  you  are  here,"  she  said, 
with  pronounced  archness.  "  It  is  about 
your  mountain  infant.  When  I  have  sent 
for  you  myself  you  have  been  '  so  busy.' 
But  for  him  you  can  come.  Is  it  not  so  ?  " 

Miss  Herrick  smiled  back  at  her  appreci 
atively,  and  came  to  the  point  with  business 
like  directness. 

u  Yes,  I  have  come  about  this  strayed 
mountain  boy,"  she  admitted  good-naturedly. 
"  I  want  you  to  send  him  back  to  his 
mother." 

Dolorita  lit  a  cigarette  and  took  a  long, 
luxurious  puff".  She  had  offered  her  visitor 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

one,  as  she  always  did,  and  had  received  Miss 
Herrick's  courteous  refusal  with  the  wonted 
air  of  sweet  and  regretful  surprise.  She  was 
learning  the  art  of  making  "  rings,"  and 
essayed  several  with  melancholy  results,  be 
fore  she  got  round  to  the  lighter  and  more 
easily  managed  matter  of  the  enamoured 
mountaineer. 

"  Why  ?  "  she  asked  at  length,  with  in 
dolent  curiosity. 

"  Because  he  is  wholly  out  of  his  element 
here,"  responded  the  newspaper  woman,  with 
convincing  candor.  "  He  is  as  much  out  of 
place  in  this  role  as  a  wild  thing  would  be  in 
a  cage.  Besides,  he  is  n't  '  smart ' ;  he  is  n't 
entertaining ;  he  has  n't  a  cent.  He  would 
develop  into  an  unmitigated  bore.  You 
would  have  trouble  in  getting  him  off  your 
hands.  The  most  sensible  as  well  as  the 
kindest  thing  you  can  possibly  do  is  to  pack 
him  off  home." 

Dolorita  laughed  as  she  leaned  back, 
watching  with  half-closed  eyes  the  obstinate 
little  puffs  of  smoke  that  would  not  form  into 
circles. 

"Well,  amlga  mla,  rejoice,"  she  said, 
144 


From  the  Hand  of  Dolorita 

lightly.  "  Your  friend  —  he  is  safe.  He 
has  thrown  me  over.  He  will  have  nothing 
to  do  with  me.  It  is  not  flattering,  but  it  is 
the  truth.  He  is  already  in  his  mountains  — 
or  on  the  way  there,"  added  Dolorita,  vaguely. 

"  You  mean  —  ?  "  queried  Miss  Herrick, 
blankly. 

"Just  what  I  say,"  repeated  the  other 
woman.  "  He  was  disappointed  in  me.  He 
told  me  so  —  at  the  supper,  with  all  the 
guests  around.  It  was  rather  gay,"  con 
fessed  the  dancer,  innocently,  "  and  he  was 
not  pleased.  He  pushed  back  his  chair,  and 
—  what  do  you  call  it  ?  preached  us  a  sermon, 
like  a  minister  in  a  pulpit.  It  was  funny.  I 
think  we  were  frightened,  for  a  moment. 
Then  he  rushed  away  without  his  hat,  and 
we  laughed  and  finished  our  supper." 

"  He  '11  be  at  your  feet  to  beg  your  pardon 
in  another  hour,  perhaps,"  suggested  Ruth 
Herrick,  doubtfully. 

The  pupils  of  Dolorita's  eyes  contracted. 
Her  whole  mobile  face  took  on  a  film  of 
hardness. 

"  Not  after  what  he  said.  He  said  very 
ugly  things.  He  seemed  to  have  been  read- 
10  145 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

ing  the  stories  your  clever  newspapers  have 
published  about  me."  She  laughed  scorn 
fully  and  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  I  tell  you  it  is  over,"  she  said,  —  "  over 
before  it  began.  Your  little  boy  is  quite  safe. 
I  should  not  permit  that  he  pass  the  entrance 
of  this  hotel,"  she  added  curtly. 

Miss  Herrick  rose  with  a  feeling  of  keen 
relief  that  the  interview  and  the  incident 
were  ended. 

"  Thank  you  for  telling  me  about  it  so 
unreservedly,"  she  said,  with  warmth,  as 
they  shook  hands.  "  I  'm  very  glad  the 
boy  is  going  home." 

She  hurried  away,  and  Dolorita  looked  after 
her,  an  odd  expression  on  her  beautiful  sel 
fish  face. 

"  She  did  me  a  good  turn  once,"  she  said 
to  her  maid,  in  Spanish, "  when  she  published 
my  answer  to  that  Van  Dreer  story.  Now 
we  are  quits.  But  she  is  a  good  woman, 
and  so  she  would  never  have  believed  me  if 
I  had  told  her  the  truth.  I  shocked  him 
purposely,  and  I  sent  him  away  —  because 
she  asked  it.  A  woman  like  myself  would 
believe  that  I  might  sometimes  have  a  good 
146 


From  the  Hand  of  Dolorita 

impulse,  —  but  not  Miss  Herrick.  Good 
women  are  always  hard  on  us  —  bad  ones. 
And  the  boy  really  amused  me.  He  was  so 
different  from  the  others." 

Dolorita  frowned  a  little  as  she  lit  another 
cigarette.  Then  her  face  cleared,  and  she 
smiled  as  she  regarded  it  for  a  moment  in  a 
hand-glass. 


THE   PASSING   OF 
HOPE   ABBOTT 


149 


THE  PASSING   OF  HOPE  ABBOTT. 

MISS  HERRICK  looked  at  the  card 
rather  critically.  She  was  fastidious, 
and  its  appearance  did  not  please  her.  She 
turned  it  over  doubtfully,  and  read  again  the 
name  engraved  on  its  rather  worn  surface  — 
Miss  Hope  Abbott.  There  was  no  address. 

"  I  don't  know  the  woman,"  she  said 
reflectively.  "  I  can't  even  remember  having 
heard  the  name  before.  Thank  her  for  her 
sympathy,  Thomas,  and  say  I  regret  that  I  am 
not  yet  quite  well  enough  to  receive  calls." 

The  bell-boy  departed  with  the  message, 
and  Miss  Herrick  turned  to  the  trained  nurse 
who  was  still  with  her,  but  whose  mission 
now  was  to  amuse  the  patient  and  save  her 
from  her  friends.  "  I  suppose  you  would  n't 
have  allowed  me  to  see  her  in  any  case,  you 
tyrant,"  she  said  affectionately ;  u  but  it 
does  n't  matter,  for  I  can't  imagine  who  she 
is  or  what  she  wants.  Perhaps  she  has  come 
on  business." 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

That  Miss  Abbott  had  not  come  on 
business  was  shown  by  the  return  of  Thomas, 
bearing  an  enormous  bouquet  of  sweet  old- 
fashioned  roses  and  a  large  white  package 
tied  with  gold-colored  thread. 

"  She  sent  you  these  things,  Miss  Herrick," 
he  said,  as  he  put  them  on  the  table  beside 
the  convalescent's  chair.  "  I  told  her  you 
said  you  did  n't  know  her,"  he  added  expan 
sively,  "  and  she  said  she  knew  you  did  n't 
know  her,  but  that  she  knew  you.  She 
said  she  came  to  your  office  in  the  '  Search 
light  '  building  once,  and  that  you  were  very 
kind  to  her,  and  she  sent  you  these  with  her 
love,  and  hoped  that  you  would  soon  be  back 
at  your  desk  again." 

Miss  Herrick  looked  at  him  helplessly. 
She  had  worked  hard  over  Thomas  during 
her  three  years  of  residence  at  the  Hotel 
Edward,  but  his  methods  still  left  much  to 
be  desired.  Her  heart  sank  as  she  pictured 
the  well-meaning  stranger  carrying  away  the 
memory  of  what  must  have  seemed  an  un 
gracious  reception.  She  threw  herself  back 
in  her  chair,  and  surveyed  the  roses  with  a 
strange  mixture  of  feelings,  in  which  regret 
I52 


The  Passing  of  Hope  Abbott 

predominated.  It  was  certainly  very  kind 
and  sweet  of  this  unknown  woman  to  take 
an  interest  in  her  and  to  send  her  these  lovely 
roses.  Their  perfume,  laden  with  suggestions 
of  country  gardens,  rilled  the  room.  The 
nurse  had  put  them  into  water,  and  was 
opening  the  package  which  had  accom 
panied  them.  It  contained  five  smaller  par 
cels,  each  carefully  wrapped,  and  bearing  the 
name  of  a  well-known  Broadway  merchant. 
She  untied  these,  in  her  quiet,  capable  way,  and 
her  patient  looked  on  with  the  interest  which 
small  things  excite  during  convalescence. 

The  first  package  contained  an  elegant  little 
cardcase  with  silver  trimmings.  In  the  second 
there  was  a  silver  stamp-box.  The  third 
held  a  pair  of  manicure  scissors  with  gold 
handles.  From  the  fourth  box  the  amused 
nurse  drew  a  little  black  silk  purse  with 
silver  mountings,  and  an  investigation  of  the 
contents  of  the  last  package  disclosed  an 
ordinary  crochet  needle. 

Nurse  and  patient  smiled  at  each  other  irre- 
pressibly,but  Miss  Herrick  was  no  less  touched 
than  amused  by  this  odd  collection  of  gifts. 

"  It  looks  precisely,"  she  said,  "  as  if  some 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

well-meaning  young  farmer  had  gone  to  the 
county  fair  and  had  there  selected  these 
things  as  beautiful  and  appropriate  offerings 
for  his  Hebe.  They  're  just  about  what  he 
would  buy,  I  think,  although  he  might  have 
overlooked  the  crochet  needle.  What  was 
the  dear,  queer  woman  thinking  about  ?  And 
who  and  what  is  she  ?  And  how  shall  I 
learn  her  address  ?  I  can't  keep  all  these 
things.  They  must  have  cost  a  great  deal 
of  money  —  much  more,  perhaps,  than  she 
could  afford  to  pay." 

As  she  spoke  she  opened  the  cardcase 
and  discovered  a  small  card  in  one  of  the 
pockets.  It  bore  the  simple  legend  of  its 
mate,  —  Miss  Hope  Abbott,  —  but  on  the 
reverse  side  there  were  a  few  lines  pencilled 
in  a  fine,  angular  hand. 

"  To  Miss  Ruth  Herrick,"  they  read, 
u  from  one  who  has  always  respected  and 
admired  her  and  her  work,  and  who  has  fol 
lowed  her  illness  with  affectionate  sympathy." 
And  then,  further  down,  there  was  a  line 
which  had  evidently  been  added  hastily,  as 
an  after-thought  —  "I  did  not  mean  to  be 
cross  that  day." 

154 


The  Passing  of  Hope  Abbott 

"  Did  not  mean  to  be  cross  that  day  !  " 
repeated  Ruth  Herrick,  slowly.  "What 
day  ?  "  She  knit  her  straight  brows  in  the 
effort  to  recall  some  memory  of  an  office  visit 
from  some  one  who  was  cross  —  from  some 
one  who  was  named  Miss  Hope  Abbott.  "  I 
shall  have  a  relapse  in  exactly  five  minutes," 
she  announced  finally,  "  unless  I  solve  this 
mystery." 

But  she  did  not  solve  it.  To  all  appear 
ances  Miss  Hope  Abbott  had  vanished  ab 
solutely.  In  vain  Miss  Herrick  sought 
information  from  her  newspaper  friends.  In 
vain  did  she  herself,  after  her  return  to  her 
work  on  "  The  Searchlight,"  devote  much 
of  her  time  and  skill  to  attempts  to  discover 
the  identity  of  her  mysterious  caller.  The 
newspaper  woman  who  had  never  "  let  go  " 
when  she  had  gathered  up  the  threads  of  a 
big  "  story,"  was  forced  to  admit  to  herself 
that  she  was  wholly  at  sea  in  this  case. 

She  did,  indeed,  secure  a  clew  from  Tim, 
the  office-boy,  a  lordly  youth  whose  business 
it  was  to  usher  callers  courteously  into  the 
presence  of  the  man  they  had  not  come  to 
see.  Tim  remembered  Miss  Abbott  as  a 
155 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

woman  who  had  called  at  the  editorial  rooms 
of  "  The  Searchlight  "  with  original  poems, 
which  she  had  confidingly  left  in  his  keeping. 
He  described  her  as  a  tall,  gaunt  woman  of 
middle  age,  very  plainly  dressed,  and  with 
exceedingly  pleasant  manners.  So  favorably, 
indeed,  did  Miss  Abbott  impress  Tim  that 
instead  of  immediately  losing  her  original 
poems,  as  was  his  custom,  he  had  kept  them 
to  return  to  her  when  she  came  again,  as  she 
had  left  no  address.  These  poems  he  brought 
to  Miss  Herrick's  desk,  and  she  recognized 
at  once  the  angular  writing  she  had  seen  on 
the  card.  The  manuscripts  were  yellow  and 
dust-covered.  Apparently  Miss  Abbott  had 
no  intention  of  reclaiming  them.  Miss  Her- 
rick  looked  over  the  original  poems.  They 
were  crude  efforts,  hopeless  from  the  editor's 
point  of  view.  She  sighed  as  she  returned 
them  to  the  boy,  and  realized  that  this  clew 
led  her  no  nearer  to  the  present  whereabouts 
of  the  writer. 

She  did  not  immediately  forget  her  un 
known  friend.  If  she  had  been  inclined  to 
do  so  the  little  scissors  on  her  dressing-case 
and  the  stamp-box  on  her  desk  would  have 

156 


The  Passing  of  Hope  Abbott 

served  as  daily  reminders.  She  still  made  so 
many  inquiries  among  her  friends  that  "  Ruth 
Herrick's  Miss  Abbott  "  was  jokingly  referred 
to  in  newspaper  circles  as  a  journalistic  "  Mrs. 
Harris."  "  It  is  n't  mere  curiosity  that  moves 
me,"  Miss  Herrick  explained  to  the  smiling 
ones  ;  "  I  'd  like  to  find  her,  for  perhaps  I 
might  be  able  to  do  something  for  her.  I 
don't  believe  she  has  too  much  money,  not 
withstanding  her  reckless  way  of  making 
gifts." 

As  the  months  went  on,  the  whirl  of  met 
ropolitan  news-getting  swept  into  the  back 
ground  the  memory  of  her  strange  caller. 
It  was  almost  a  year  after  her  visit  that  Miss 
Herrick,  sitting  at  her  desk  one  stormy 
winter  day,  stopped  her  work  long  enough 
to  glance  at  the  copy  of  the  evening  paper 
which  a  boy  had  just  placed  at  her  elbow. 
Her  eye  fell  on  the  "  scare-head  "  of  a  sensa 
tional  story  on  the  first  page.  It  set  forth  in 
heavy  type  the  fact  that  a  woman  had  just 
starved  to  death  in  a  lonely  little  cottage,  in 
a  small  town  in  New  Jersey.  She  had  been 
an  educated  woman,  —  a  teacher.  She  had 
lived  alone,  and  was  apparently  friendless  j 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

she  had  been  missed  for  a  few  days,  and  yes 
terday  neighbors  had  broken  into  the  house 
and  had  found  — 

Miss  Herrick  shivered,  and  turned  her  eyes 
toward  the  falling  snow  outside.  The  storm 
had  raged  for  days ;  it  was  bitterly  cold. 
She  had  taken  a  cab  to  go  uptown  the  pre 
vious  night,  because  she  dreaded  the  short 
walk  across  wind-swept  City  Hall  Park.  It 
seemed  almost  incredible  that  in  this  year  of 
grace  a  gentlewoman  had  been  permitted  to 
perish  of  cold  and  hunger  within  sight  and 
sound  of  her  own  kind.  The  newspaper 
woman  glanced  at  the  page  again,  and  sud 
denly  a  name  seemed  to  rise  from  it  and 
strike  her  like  a  blow. 

She  turned,  to  find  Tim  standing  at  her 
elbow  —  Tim,  looking  slightly  awed,  but 
full  of  importance.  u  That 's  the  woman, 
Miss  Herrick,"  he  said,  nodding  toward  the 
newspaper  that  lay  before  her.  "  I  came  to 
tell  you  as  soon  as  I  saw  it ;  I  took  some  of 
her  poems  to  the  city  editor,  and  he  is  going 
to  print  them  in  the  next  edition." 

The  u  original  poems "  came  out  in  the 
next  edition,  with  additional  facts  about  the 

158 


The  Passing  of  Hope  Abbott 

victim  of  cold  and  starvation  in  the  Jersey 
hills.  She  seemed  to  have  had  no  acquain 
tances  in  the  village.  The  little  children 
knew  her,  and  many  of  them  had  home-made 
playthings  which  she  had  given  them.  Their 
parents  had  noticed  the  tall,  gaunt  figure 
passing  through  the  village  streets,  and 
several  of  them  recalled  the  smile  that  was 
the  woman's  one  beauty.  They  had  not 
called  on  her  —  neither  they  nor  she  seemed 
to  have  thought  of  that.  And  they  had  not 
missed  her  during  the  week  preceding  her 
death,  for  it  had  been  so  cold  that  few  of  the 
women  or  children  had  ventured  out.  But 
at  last  some  one  had  noticed  that  there  was  no 
light  in  the  small,  isolated  house,  and  inves 
tigation  showed  that  there  had  been  none  for 
a  week,  nor  had  there  been  food  or  fire. 
And  so  they  found  her. 

Miss  Herrick  read  no  more ;  her  vivid 
imagination  filled  in  the  picture.  She  saw 
the  woman  who  had  followed  her  illness 
"  with  affectionate  sympathy "  awaiting  her 
own  fate  with  a  grim  pride  which  not  even 
death  could  conquer.  She  thought  of  the 
days  and  nights  of  physical  and  mental  agony 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

before  the  end  came.  She  pictured  to  herself 
that  last  night,  when  darkness  fell  and  the 
storm  deepened,  and  was  defied  by  light  and 
warmth  and  comfort  in  all  the  homes  but 
one.  She  could  see  that  one. 

The  door  of  her  office  banged  cheerfully 
as  the  editor  of  the  "  Searchlight's  "  woman's 
page  came  in,  pulling  the  collar  of  her  jacket 
up  around  her  throat. 

"  Come  out  to  dinner,  Ruthie,"  she  called 
gayly.  "  I  have  to  work  to-night,  and  I 
need  the  cheering  influence  of  your  society 
while  I  eat." 

Then,  seeing  the  girl's  face,  she  stopped 
suddenly,  and  her  own  expression  changed. 
"  Why,  what 's  the  matter,  dear  ?  "  she 
asked,  putting  her  hand  affectionately  on 
her  friend's  shoulder. 

Miss  Herrick  laid  her  cheek  against  it, 
and  closed  her  eyes  with  a  little  sob. 

"  I  should  not  be  a  cheerful  dinner  com 
panion  to-night,  Helen,"  she  said.  "  I  have 
just  found  Miss  Hope  Abbott." 


160 


A   POINT   OF 
ETHICS 


161 


A   POINT   OF    ETHICS. 

"  A  S  I  understand  it,"  said  Virginia  Im- 
•/~JL  boden,  reflectively,  "  the  question 
resolves  itself  into  this :  To  what  extent  can 
a  woman  of  irreproachable  character  assist 
a  woman  of  no  character  without  being  in 
jured  in  the  eyes  of  others  ?  " 

Frances  Neville  changed  her  position  rest 
lessly,  and  lifted  a  hand  in  protest  against 
such  an  unqualified  statement. 

"  You  have  put  the  case  much  too 
strongly,"  she  objected,  "if  you  are  speak 
ing  of  Miss  Bertram." 

There  was  a  slight  irritability  in  her  tone. 
Miss  Herrick,  who  was  at  the  piano,  care 
lessly  playing  Chopin,  caught  it,  and  whirled 
round  on  the  stool  to  face  the  group  of 
friends  who  were  scattered  about  her  apart 
ment  in  various  attitudes  of  restfulness. 
Virginia  Imboden  lay  on  the  rug  before 
the  grate,  her  fair  head  vividly  outlined  by 
the  dancing  flames.  Frances  Neville  was 
stretched  on  the  broad  divan  near  her,  and 
163 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

in  the  depths  of  a  great  easy-chair  Mrs. 
Ogilvie,  whose  sombre  gown  recalled  her 
recent  bereavement,  had  been  dreamily  lis 
tening  to  the  music,  which  swept  her  thoughts 
back  to  the  old  days  when  she  and  John 
were  so  happy  together. 

To  her,  as  to  Ruth  Herrick,  the  words 
just  spoken  were  a  discord  in  the  harmony 
of  a  social  evening  after  the  strain  of  the 
week.  Miss  Herrick  rose  and  turned  on 
the  electric  light,  whose  radiance,  under  silk 
shades,  threw  a  softened  light  over  the  apart 
ment.  Her  guests,  startled  by  the  unex 
pected  illumination,  blinked  protestingly  at 
her  as  they  changed  their  positions  to  more 
conventional  ones,  while  she  drew  the  shades 
to  screen  the  rooms,  with  their  picturesque 
group,  from  the  gaze  of  inquisitive  neighbors. 
Outside,  the  wind  whimpered  through  the 
courts  of  the  big  hotel,  and  the  cheerless  rain 
of  November  beat  against  the  window-panes. 
Mrs.  Ogilvie  lent  ear  to  it  for  a  moment,  and 
turned  with  a  little  shiver  from  the  mental 
contemplation  of  the  obtrusive  grave  on  the 
hillside  to  the  homely  picture  of  the  firelight 
blazing  on  the  hearth. 

164 


A  Point  of  Ethics 

"  If  you  girls  are  going  to  discuss  that  sub 
ject,"  laughed  Miss  Herrick,  apologetically, 
"  you  will  need  all  the  light  there  is.  Rumi 
nating  in  the  dark,  to  Polish  music,  is  apt  to 
make  one's  point  of  view  a  little  morbid." 

She  dropped  into  a  "  cosey  hollow "  near 
the  fire  and  clasped  her  hands  behind  her 
head  in  her  favorite  attitude  of  rest  and 
reflection. 

"Now  that  we  have  the  honor  of  your 
attention  you  shall  decide  the  question  for 
us,"  said  Miss  Imboden,  with  conviction. 
"  It  must  be  taken  up  and  disposed  of.  It 's 
something  we  have  to  settle,  and  we  cannot 
shirk  the  issue  any  longer." 

Ruth  Herrick  smiled  down  at  the  earnest 
face  upturned  to  her. 

"  You  make  it  highly  impressive,  Virginia," 
she  said  gently,  —  u  almost  too  impressive,  I 
think;  for,  after  all,  the  issue,  as  you  call 
it,  is  a  very  simple  one.  It  has  to  do  with  a 
bright  and  charming  young  woman  who  has 
come  among  us,  of  whom  we  know  little, 
but  of  whom  we  have  grown  very  fond. 
Is  n't  that  all  ?  " 

"  How  trying  you  are  !  "   murmured   her 

'65 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

friend,  protestingly.  She  drew  her  dark 
brows  together  in  a  frown,  then  went  on 
quickly. 

"  That  is  n't  all.  It  is  n't  even  the  begin 
ning.  Here  is  the  situation,  impartially  put. 
A  woman  (young,  and  clever,  and  charming, 
I  grant  you)  comes  to  us  from  nowhere. 
Her  life,  so  far  as  we  are  concerned,  appar 
ently  began  the  day  we  met  her.  None  of 
us  has  heard  a  word  from  her  of  home,  or 
parents,  or  friends.  None  of  us  knows  where 
she  came  from,  or  what  or  who  she  is.  Be 
fore  we  realized  what  this  might  imply  we 
became  fond  of  her,  as  you  say.  Insensibly 
she  grew  into  our  affections  and  our  lives. 
We  asked  her  no  questions  and  she  volun 
teered  no  information.  After  this  condition 
has  been  existing  for  several  months  we  dis 
cover  that  she  is  a  marked  woman  in  our 
profession,  —  that  she  is  credited  with  a  past, 
—  that  her  reserve,  reticence,  and  gayety  are 
making  her  talked  about,  —  and  that  we  are 
coming  in  for  some  share  of  the  —  the  — 
well,  feeling  that  exists  about  her.  Now,  if 
this  is  so,  are  we  held  to  her  by  our  friendly 
interest  ?  If  we  knew  she  was  all  right  it 
166 


A  Point  of  Ethics 

would  be  different,  because  then  we  could 
speak  about  her  with  the  force  and  courage 
that  we  should  have.  But  we  don't  know, 
and  that 's  the  trouble." 

Miss  Herrick  became  serious. 

"  I  did  n't  know  it  was  so  bad  as  that," 
she  said  quietly.  She  looked  at  the  others 
with  a  question  in  her  glance.  Even  Mrs. 
Ogilvie  lowered  her  head  in  reflective  con 
sideration  of  Miss  Imboden's  statement. 

"I  had  not  realized,"  continued  the  hostess, 
gravely,  "that  it  had  gone  so  far.  The 
problem  has  seemed  to  me  a  very  simple  one 
—  no  problem  at  all.  Whatever  the  girl 
has  been,  she  is  now  all  that  she  should  be, 
so  far  as  we  know.  We  know  how  hard 
she  works,  how  plainly  she  lives,  how  lonely 
she  is  except  for  our  affection  and  our  com 
panionship.  If  she  has  done  wrong  and  is 
trying  to  make  amends,  this  is  no  time  for  us 
to  push  her  back.  Surely,  as  her  friends,  we 
should  give  her  all  the  help  we  can.  I  don't 
wish  to  dictate  or  to  suggest  to  any  one  of 
you  what  her  course  should  be,  but  to  me  we 
seem  very  smug  and  virtuous  as  we  sit  here 
criticising  this  girl  from  our  own  self-assured 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

little  pedestals.  How  do  we  know  what 
environment  and  temptations  she  may  have 
had  ?  How  do  we  know  what  we  should 
have  done  if  we  had  been  in  her  place  ?  I 
shall  certainly  continue  to  love  her  and  to 
tell  her  so.  And  if  the  uplifting  influence 
of  my  society  will  help  her,"  ended  the  girl 
more  lightly,  "  she  shall  have  all  that  I  have 
time  to  give  her." 

She  crossed  to  the  piano  and  drifted  into 
the  rhythmic  melody  of  the  Twelfth  Noc 
turne,  while  Mrs.  Ogilvie  leaned  her  cheek 
against  the  unresponsive  wood  of  the  instru 
ment  and  listened.  From  her  comfortable 
rest  on  the  big  divan  Miss  Neville  took  up 
the  discussion. 

"  You  were  always  something  of  a  prig, 
Virginia,"  she  said,  with  vivacious  bluntness. 
"  But  you  're  fairly  distinguishing  yourself 
to-night.  You  Jre  not  talking  to  Park  Row. 
You  're  talking  to  Miss  Bertram's  friends." 

Miss  Imboden  flushed  a  little. 

"  I  don't  forget  that  I  'm  speaking  to  my 
own    friends,    too,"    she    said    with    dignity. 
"  If  you    have    any   idea  that   I  would  say 
these  things  to  anybody  else,  banish   it." 
168 


A  Point  of  Ethics 

She  raised  her  voice  a  little,  above  the 
seductive  swing  of  the  music. 

"Surely  you  don't  misunderstand  me  — 
all  of  you,"  she  urged.  u  I  don't  want  to 
seem  c  smug '  and  self-satisfied,  as  Ruth  puts 
it.  No  one  is  fonder  of  Miss  Bertram  than 
I.  But  I  'm  alone  here  in  New  York,  and  I 
have  nothing  in  the  world  except  my  health, 
my  very  ordinary  journalistic  ability,  and  my 
reputation  as  a  c  hard-working  and  respectable 
lady,'  to  quote  my  appreciative  janitor.  Can 
I  afford  to  jeopardize  the  most  precious  of 
these  by  being  the  acknowledged  friend  of 
a  woman  whose  reputation  is,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  the  subject  of  unpleasant  talk?  My 
mother  sits  in  our  little  home  out  West  read 
ing  the  newspaper  clippings  about  my  work 
and  pasting  them  in  a  scrapbook.  Every 
word  she  reads  or  hears  about  me  is  precious 
gold  to  her.  Can  I  run  the  risk  of  having 
my  name  and  hers  carelessly  linked  in  news 
paper  gossip  with  another  name  that  is  men 
tioned  with  sneers  ?  This  is  n't  mere  fancy. 
It  has  been  done  already  —  and  in  connec 
tion  with  you,  Ruth,"  she  broke  in  suddenly, 
wheeling  about  and  facing  her  incredulous 

169 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

hostess.  "  Herforth  said  to  me  to-day,  '  I 
saw  Miss  Herrick  at  the  theatre  the  other 
night  with  Miss  Bertram.  They  're  not 

0  J 

friends,  are  they  ? '  and  his  accent  of  surprise 
said  more  than  he  meant  to,  I  assure  you. 
Mr.  Davidson  has  spoken  to  Miss  Neville 
about  it  —  very  nicely  and  guardedly,  of 
course,  but  what  he  said  amounted  to  a 
warning,  and  half  a  dozen  of  our  women 
friends  have  labored  with  us  individually  and 
collectively  along  the  same  lines.  You  must 
all  admit  that.  I  'm  willing  to  help  Miss 
Bertram  in  any  way  I  can.  I  '11  advise  her 
about  her  stories,  I  '11  divide  my  assignments 
with  her,  as  we  're  both  on  space,  but  as  for 
c  the  precious  boon  of  companionship,'  that 's 
another  story  !  Does  my  companionship  do 
her  good  enough  to  compensate  for  the  harm 
hers  does  me  ?  And  what  is  true  in  my  case 
is  true  in  yours.  There  is  the  situation  in  a 
nutshell.  I  don't  like  to  say  these  things. 
I  almost  hate  myself  while  I  'm  saying  them, 
for  they  seem  such  worldly  counsel.  I  know 
how  much  finer  Ruth's  point  of  view  is. 
But  we  must  remember  where  we  are. 
Truth  is  speaking  to  you,  my  friends,  though 
170 


A  Point  of  Ethics 

Truth  realizes  that  it  may  not  prevail  in  a 
gathering  which  is  decidedly  not  in  sympathy 
with  the  speaker." 

She  ended  with  a  stage  sigh,  and  the  others 
laughed,  glad  of  any  relief  in  a  topic  that  had 
been  depressing  to  all. 

"  Does  n't  it  seem  to  you,"  said  Mrs. 
Ogilvie,  in  her  quiet  way,  "that  before  we 
decide  this  question  the  person  most  con 
cerned  should  be  heard  from?  Surely  there 
is  some  way  of  learning  the  truth  and  of 
defending  her,  —  or  of  getting  her  to  defend 
herself.  The  person  we  should  hear  from 
next  is —  " 

"Miss  Bertram,"  said  Miss  Herrick's 
maid,  at  the  door.  With  a  quick  and  ex 
pressive  glance  at  the  group,  the  hostess 
went  to  meet  the  new  arrival. 

"  If  that  had  happened  in  a  play,"  mur 
mured  Miss  Imboden,  "we  should  have 
thought  it  a  very  forced  situation.  And  yet 
here  she  is,  at  just  the  right  moment,  to 
speak  for  herself.  Query, will  she  speak?  " 

The  young  woman  who  was  entering  the 
room  with  Miss  Herrick  came  forward  with 
the  assured  air  of  one  who  joins  a  circle  of 
171 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

tried  friends.  She  greeted  the  others  with 
the  brilliant  smile  and  charm  of  manner  to 
which  they  had  all  succumbed  early  in  their 
acquaintance  with  her,  and  sank  contentedly 
into  a  low  seat  near  the  fire.  Her  cheeks 
were  flushed  by  her  encounter  with  the 
boisterous  wind  outside,  and  a  few  drops  of 
rain  sparkled  on  her  dark  hair.  Looking  at 
her  a  little  consciously,  the  group  became 
aware  of  a  change  in  her  manner  —  a  bright 
ness,  a  sparkle,  an  apparent  freedom  from 
care  which  they  had  not  observed  before. 
Miss  Herrick  was  the  first  to  comment 
upon  it. 

"  You  seem  very  happy,"  she  said,  resting 
her  hand  affectionately  on  her  friend's  shoul 
der.  u  I  hope  something  nice  has  happened 
to  you." 

Alice  Bertram  caught  the  caressing  hand 
in  her  own,  and  held  it  against  her  cheek  with 
such  an  ecstatic  little  laugh  that  the  others 
smiled  in  sympathy. 

"  I  am  happy,"  she  said  emphatically,  "  and 

something  very  nice  has  happened.     I  have 

won  a  big  wager,  I  have  proved  the  truth  of 

my  most  cherished  theory,  and  to-night  I  'm 

172 


A  Point  of  Ethics 

at  liberty  to  tell  you  girls  all  about  it,  — 
you  dear  girls  who  have  been  so  good  to  me. 
I  shall  never  forget  that.  Do  you  suppose  I 
have  n't  realized  how  fine  it  has  been  of  you 
to  take  me  as  I  am,  without  a  question  even 
in  your  manner,  —  to  take  me  into  your  big 
hearts  so  thoroughly  and  so  warmly  ?  Every 
day  and  every  night  I  've  thought  of  the  good 
ness  of  it  and  the  beauty  of  it.  I  7ve  known 
how  strange  my  reserve  must  have  seemed 
to  you.  Any  one  but  you  would  have  tried 
to  break  through  it,  and  would  have  asked 
me  about  the  past  I  seemed  so  anxious  to 
conceal." 

She  looked  at  them  fondly,  her  eyes  rest 
ing  longest  on  Miss  Herrick,  who  smiled 
back  at  her  in  warm  responsiveness.  Vir 
ginia  Imboden  had  colored  a  little,  but  was 
looking  at  the  new  arrival  with  a  reflection 
of  the  other  woman's  joy  in  her  clear  eyes. 
Miss  Neville  and  Mrs.  Ogilvie  were  elo 
quently  silent.  Alice  Bertram's  glance  swept 
round  the  circle  and  rested  reflectingly  on  a 
ring  on  Miss  Herrick's  hand,  which  she  had 
kept  in  her  own.  She  twisted  this  about 
rather  nervously  as  she  continued. 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

"  You  must  have  wondered  who  I  am. 
I  know  you  have  realized  that  I  am  not 
what  I  seemed  to  be.  The  part  I  played 
was  so  new  to  me  that  I  'm  afraid  I  did  n't 
do  it  very  well.  I  'm  going  to  ask  you  to 
let  me  tell  you  the  whole  story  to-night.  I 
warn  you,  though,  that  it 's  very  egotistical, 
and  I  shall  talk  about  myself  the  whole  time ! 
I  came  to  tell  it  to  Ruth  and  to  ask  her  to 
pass  it  on.  It  is  part  of  my  good  fortune  to 
find  you  all  together,  for  I  'm  going  away  to 
morrow,  and  shall  not  return.  I  'm  so  glad 
my  last  night  in  New  York  will  be  spent 
with  you." 

She  stopped  for  a  moment. 

"  Going  away  !  "  they  echoed,  in  dismal 
chorus.  Mrs.  Ogilvie  crossed  the  room  and 
dropped  onto  the  ottoman  at  Miss  Bertram's 
feet,  her  eyes  full  of  tears. 

"  We  shall  be  so  sorry  to  lose  you,"  she 
said  softly. 

u  I  know  —  I  'm  sure  you  will,"  the  girl 
told  her,  looking  down  into  the  wet  eyes  with 
a  responsive  dimness  in  her  own.  "  But 
we  're  not  parting  forever.  I  'm  going  out 
of  newspaper  work  for  all  time.  But  I  hope 
174 


A  Point  of  Ethics 

to  see  you  girls  very  often,  in  the  years  to 
come." 

She  laughed  a  little  nervously. 

"  I  hardly  know  how  to  start  my  story," 
she  said.  "  I  feel  as  if  I  ought  to  say  '  I 
was  always  a  strange  child,'  as  the  romantic 
heroines  of  fiction  usually  begin.  I  was  not 
an  especially  strange  child,  but  my  father 
was  and  is  a  strange  man.  You  all  know 
of  him." 

She  mentioned  the  name  of  a  man  famous 
throughout  the  country  as  one  of  the  West's 
great  mining  kings.  His  eccentricities  of 
character  were  as  conspicuous  and  as  much 
discussed  as  his  vast  wealth.  The  news 
paper  women  recalled  the  printed  stories  of 
his  princely  home,  his  beautiful  wife,  his 
munificent  gifts  to  various  public  enterprises, 
and,  above  all,  his  odd  theories  and  experi 
ments.  Despite  his  wealth,  he  had  socialistic 
leanings,  and  was  idolized  by  his  miners,  they 
knew.  And  this  was  his  daughter,  —  this 
quietly  attired  young  woman  who  had  worked 
side  by  side  with  them  for  six  months  in  the 
relentless  grind  of  journalism. 

"  When  I  left  college,"  continued  that 
175 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

young  person  with  a  businesslike  air,  "  my 
father  naturally  assumed  that  I  would  de 
velop  into  the  modern  product  that  he  most 
despised, — the  society  girl.  My  brothers,  of 
course,  he  took  in  hand  as  soon  as  they  were 
graduated.  He  gave  them  a  rigorous  busi 
ness  training,  and  they  had  to  work  their  way 
from  the  bottom  as  faithfully  as  if  they  had  n't 
a  cent.  They  were  bright  boys,  and  father 
was  very  proud  of  the  way  they  got  on.  He 
used  to  talk  about  it  a  good  deal,  and  then 
look  at  me  and  sigh.  It  was  trying,  espe 
cially  as  I  had  some  of  his  spirit  in  me,  I 
suppose,  so  I  resolved  to  give  him  a  little 
surprise.  Am  I  boring  you  to  death  ?  " 

She  looked  deprecatingly  at  the  interested 
faces  around  her,  and,  reassured  by  their  ex 
pressions  and  emphatic  denials,  went  on. 

u  One  day  my  father  was  particularly  vig 
orous  in  his  denunciation  of  idle  women.  I 
felt,  foolishly,  that  his  remarks  were  directed 
at  me.  He  was  really  very  fond  of  me,  but 
I  think  he  classed  me  with  my  pet  kitten  in 
the  matter  of  intelligence,  notwithstanding  my 
university  diploma.  I  let  him  talk  until  he 
had  finished,  and  then  I  told  him  calmly  that 


A  Point  of  Ethics 

I  was  quite  as  competent  to  support  myself 
as  my  brothers  were,  and  that  I  could,  if 
necessary,  earn  as  much  money  in  a  year  as 
they  had  earned  during  their  first  year  of 
work. 

u  My  father  laughed  good-naturedly  at  this," 
added  Miss  Bertram,  smiling  again  at  the 
recollection.  "  He  scoffed  at  the  whole  idea 
as  utterly  absurd.  It  piqued  me,  and  on  the 
impulse  of  the  moment  I  made  a  wager  with 
him. 

u  On  my  twenty-first  birthday  he  had  in 
vested  a  very  large  sum  of  money  for  me. 
I  was  to  have  the  yearly  income  to  spend.  I 
offered  to  wager  the  entire  sum  (everything 
I  had  in  the  world,  you  see)  that  I  could  go 
to  a  strange  city,  take  a  new  name,  and  earn 
my  own  living  for  six  months.  I  was  not  to 
take  a  penny  with  me,  except  the  money  to  pay 
for  my  ticket  to  New  York,  and  I  was  not  to 
borrow  a  cent  from  anybody.  I  was  to  pay 
for  my  own  clothes,  food,  and  lodgings  for  six 
months.  If  I  failed,  every  cent  I  had  in  the 
world  would  go  back  to  my  father,  and  I  was 
to  live  for  five  years  on  what  he  chose  to  give 
me.  If  I  succeeded,  he  was  to  double  the 
12  I77 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

gift  he  made  me  on  my  twenty-first  birthday, 
and  he  was  to  consent  to  my  going  abroad  at 
the  end  of  the  experiment  for  a  post-graduate 
course  in  German  universities." 

She  stopped  for  breath,  while  her  hearers 
closed  about  her  with  enthusiastic  comments 
and  questions. 

"  I  have  succeeded,"  she  told  them,  with 
shining  eyes.  "  The  six  months  ended  last 
night,  and  I  sent  my  father  a  telegram.  I 
also  sent  him  a  telegraphic  copy  of  the 
amounts  of  my  weekly  earnings,  which  c  The 
Searchlight's  '  auditor  gave  me  when  I  asked 
for  it.  I  have  not  been  a  brilliant  journalis 
tic  success,  but  I  have  supported  myself  in 
comparative  comfort.  Working  on  space,  I 
have  averaged  twenty  dollars  a  week  for  six 
months.  My  brothers  did  not  earn  more 
than  fifteen  when  they  began  to  '  make  their 
living.' 

"  I  told  the  city  editor  last  night  that  I  was 
going  to  resign,  and  he  asked  me  to  recon 
sider  the  matter,  and  said  he  'd  put  me  on  a 
weekly  salary  of  twenty-five  dollars  if  I  would 
stay.  Of  course  he  has  n't  the  faintest  idea 
who  I  am.  I  got  him  to  write  out  the  offer, 


A  Point  of  Ethics 

and  to-night  I  'm  going  to  mail  it  to  my 
father,  — just  for  glory  and  to  down  him 
more  thoroughly.  Before  I  left  my  room  to 
night  I  got  a  telegram  from  him.  Here  it 
is.  Is  n't  he  a  dear  ?  " 

She  unrolled  the  slip  of  yellow  paper  and 
gave  it  to  Miss  Herrick,  who  passed  it  round 
to  the  others.  The  girls  read  it  eagerly. 

"  Our  loving  congratulations.  Your  mother 
and  I  are  prouder  than  ever  of  our  girl. 
Come  home  at  once  and  show  your  brothers 
how  to  make  a  success  of  life." 

u  Is  n't  he  fine  ?  "  repeated  his  daughter 
with  conviction.  "  I  'm  going  home  to 
morrow.  I  have  saved  enough  to  take  me 
there  in  a  new  gown  and  with  a  general  effect 
of  affluence.  I  shall  have  the  best  accom 
modations  all  the  way.  It  will  take  the  very 
last  cent  I  have  saved,  but  that  does  n't 
matter.  I  Ve  won  my  wager  and  I  'm 
content !  " 

She  tossed  the  telegram  into  the  air  and 
caught  it  again  with  a  gay  laugh. 

"  I  have  no  regrets  over  the  end  of  my 
newspaper  life,"  she  added  soberly,  "  except 
that  I  shall  miss  you  girls  —  dreadfully.  I  've 
179 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

grown  very  fond  of  you."  She  hurried  on  as 
if  not  daring  to  dwell  on  this  too  long.  "  I  'm 
going  abroad  almost  immediately,  to  be  gone 
two  years  ;  so  I  shall  not  see  you  for  that 
time,  unless  you  run  over  there.  My  fam 
ily  will  come  next  summer,  as  usual,  and  we 
shall  travel  about  —  I  don't  quite  know  where. 
Of  course  the  work  was  hard  and  often  un 
pleasant,  but  now  that  it 's  over,  I  don't 
mind  that." 

She  folded  the  telegram  and  her  face 
clouded  at  a  sudden  recollection. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  you  have  heard 
this,"  she  said,  "  but  it  has  come  to  me 
within  the  last  day  or  two  that  a  few  busy- 
bodies  have  been  saying  unpleasant  things 
about  me.  They  're  the  type  who  won't 
admit  that  they  don't  know  everything.  They 
know  nothing  about  me,  so  they  made  up 
some  interesting  and  exciting  yarns  and  told 
them  freely.  I  believe  they  have  made  me 
out  a  sort  of  adventuress." 

Her  lips  curled  as  she  spoke.  Evidently 
she  had  no  idea  of  the  nature  of  the  "  in 
teresting  and  exciting  yarns  "  she  mentioned. 
u  I  'm  glad  I  did  n't  know  about  it  sooner," 
1 80 


A  Point  of  Ethics 

she  ended  lightly.  "  It  might  have  worried 
me.  I  hate  to  have  my  affairs  talked  over 
by  strangers." 

She  rose  as  she  spoke,  but  let  them  sweep 
her  back  into  her  chair  amid  a  whirl  of  pro 
testations,  for  another  hour  of  excited  ques 
tions,  ejaculations,  and  plans  for  the  future. 
Then  they  let  her  go,  promising  to  see  her 
off  for  the  West  the  next  day. 

Left  alone,  her  friends  dropped  meekly 
into  chairs  and  surveyed  each  other,  Miss 
Imboden  with  some  embarrassment,  Miss 
Herrick  a  little  triumphantly,  the  others  smil 
ing  in  serene  acceptance  of  the  situation. 

Miss  Imboden  spoke  first,  as  befitted  the 
young  person  who  had  discoursed  so  fluently 
on  the  same  subject  earlier  in  the  evening. 

"  It 's  all  delightful,"  she  said,  "  and  I  'm 
heartily  glad.  I  hope  you  won't  set  me  down 
as  a  double-dyed  young  prig  who  goes  about 
tearing  her  friends  up  by  the  roots  in  her 
anxiety  to  discover  whether  they  are  good 
enough  for  her.  Do  you  think  I  should 
have  told  Alice  that  I  have  not  been  as — as 
loyal  to  her  as  she  thought  me  ? "  she  asked 
anxiously. 

181 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

Miss  Herrick  responded  promptly. 

u  Not  for  the  world,"  said  she.  "  This 
is  an  easy  problem.  I  saw  the  deadly  pur 
pose  in  your  eye  toward  the  end  of  the  even 
ing  and  stopped  it  with  an  awful  glare.  That 
was  emphatically  the  time  for  one  of  your 
c  brilliant  flashes  of  silence.' ' 

She  helped  Miss  Imboden  into  her  coat 
and  tucked  in  her  sleeves  with  sisterly  care. 

"A  certain  amount  of  precaution  is  an 
excellent  thing,  little  girl,"  she  said  seriously. 
u  Theoretically  you  were  all  right.  Practi 
cally  you  were  wrong,  as  you  now  know,  in 
this  case.  The  rest  of  us  felt  that,  because 
we  're  older  and  more  experienced  than  you. 
Perhaps  we  read  human  nature  a  little  better." 

A  sudden  thought  struck  her,  and  notwith 
standing  Miss  Imboden's  flushed  cheeks  she 
added,  teasingly :  — 

"  After  all,  the  great  question  of  the  even 
ing  is  still  unsettled  :  To  what  extent  can  a 
good  woman  help  an  erring  sister  without 
being  injured  in  the  eyes  of  others?  Think 
it  over,  Virginia  dear,  and  let  us  know  !  " 

Miss  Imboden  has  not  solved  her  problem 
yet. 

182 


A   ROMANCE   OF   THE 
CITY   ROOM 


183 


A    ROMANCE    OF    THE    CITY 
ROOM. 

MISS  BANCROFT  raised  her  eyes 
from  her  work  and  turned  them 
absently  upon  the  small  messenger  who  had 
stopped  at  her  desk.  They  'were  beautiful 
eyes  — "  like  no  other  eyes  in  the  world," 
one  infatuated  young  reporter  had  solemnly 
affirmed;  but  to-night  they  were  tired  and 
rather  sad.  Miss  Bancroft  had  had  a  trying 
day.  She  had  pursued  an  elusive  news 
"  story "  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  city 
until  late  at  night  before  finding  it.  She  had 
been  thrown  into  contact  with  a  great  many 
disagreeable  persons.  Moreover,  she  had  had 
the  depressing  experience  of  seeing  the  in 
dividual  who  knew  most  about  the  story  walk 
cheerfully  away  with  a  man  reporter,  ostensi 
bly  to  have  a  drink,  but  in  reality,  she  was 
sure,  to  give  that  youth  exclusive  information 
for  a  rival  newspaper. 

As  she  wrote  her  story  to-night  in  the  city 
room   of  "The  Searchlight,"    she    reflected 

-85 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

gloomily  that  "  The  Globe  "  would  probably 
come  out  the  next  morning  with  a  "  beat  "  on 
the  same  subject  which  would  bring  her 
before  the  city  editor  for  explanations  that 
she  could  not  give  and  for  a  possible  repri 
mand  that  she  was  in  no  mood  to  accept. 
She  took  from  the  boy  the  package  and  note 
he  offered  her,  both  of  which,  she  noticed, 
bore  her  full  name  plainly  printed  on  the  type 
writer.  As  there  was  no  time  to  examine 
them  she  placed  them  carelessly  on  one  side 
of  her  desk,  among  a  mass  of  accumulated 
mail,  and  returned  to  her  work  philosoph 
ically  determined  to  make  the  most  of  the 
material  she  had  secured. 

Her  pen  flew  steadily  over  the  paper  for  an 
hour,  and  sheet  after  sheet  was  added  to  the 
pile  of  "  copy  "  at  her  right  hand,  wherein  her 
story  was  told  in  the  clear,  concise  fashion 
for  which  she  was  noted.  When  the  last 
word  had  been  written  she  glanced  at  the 
clock  over  the  night  city  editor's  desk.  It 
was  after  twelve.  There  was  no  sound  in 
the  room  but  the  clatter  of  typewriters,  the 
scratching  of  the  swift  pens  of  her  associates, 
and  the  shuffling  feet  of  office  boys  who  filed 
186 


A  Romance  of  the  City  Room 

in  and  out  with  messages  and  copy.  In  the 
pitiless  glare  of  the  electric  light  the  faces 
round  her  looked  worn  and  haggard.  She  sent 
her  story  to  the  night  city  editor's  desk,  and 
leaning  back  in  her  chair  in  the  moment  of 
relaxation  after  a  mental  strain,  sympathized 
with  herself  and  her  fellow-workers  with  the 
intensity  of  overtired  nerves.  Was  it  all 
worth  while  ?  she  asked  herself  wearily,  as 
she  had  asked  many  times  before.  She 
thought  of  the  home  down  South,  which  she 
had  left  so  hopefully  three  years  ago  to  seek 
her  fortune.  As  she  closed  her  eyes  she 
could  see  every  feature  of  the  old  house 
nestled  so  cosily  in  its  setting  of  blossoming 
shrubs.  Again  she  heard  the  sighing  of  the 
night  wind  among  the  pines  and  the  sleepy 
call  of  birds  to  one  another.  She  could 
almost  smell  the  perfume  of  the  roses  that 
climbed  over  the  verandas  and  looked  in  at 
the  windows  of  her  own  little  room.  In 
fancy  she  saw  that  room,  its  walls  covered 
with  the  pictures  she  loved,  the  dwarf  book 
case  filled  with  her  favorite  books,  the  desk  at 
which  she  had  written  her  first  ambitious 
"  literary  "  efforts,  the  small  white  bed  where 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

she  had  slept  such  deep,  untroubled  sleep  in 
those  peaceful  days  that  seemed  a  thousand 
years  ago.  Perhaps  her  mother  slept  there 
to-night,  dreaming  of  her  "  little  girl  "  all  alone 
in  far-away  New  York.  A  great  wave  of 
homesickness  swept  over  the  newspaper 
woman  as  she  came  back  with  a  shock  to 
the  present. 

At  his  official  desk,  the  night  city  editor 
was  scowling  over  some  telegrams  which 
had  been  placed  before  him.  Herforth,  the 
star  reporter,  had  finished  a  page  w  special " 
and  was  executing  a  small  and  quiet  jig 
beside  his  chair  by  way  of  "  restoring  his 
circulation,"  as  he  put  it.  Several  others 
were  collecting  and  paging  the  scattered 
leaves  of  their  copy,  preparatory  to  handing 
it  in,  while  a  number  of  less  fortunate  report 
ers  worked  on  hurriedly  with  an  occasional 
anxious  glance  at  the  clock.  Over  the 
whole  room  hung  the  tense  atmosphere  of 
a  newspaper  office  late  at  night.  In  the 
nervous  depression  of  the  moment  Miss 
Bancroft  forgot  the  brighter  side  of  her 
work,  of  which  she  was  keenly  appreciative 
in  her  normal  frame  of  mind.  Her  dark 
188 


A  Romance  of  the  City  Room 

head  drooped  wearily,  and  her  gloom  deep 
ened,  as  she  mechanically  arranged  her  papers 
and  began  to  search  vaguely  for  the  key  of 
her  desk.  She  had  forgotten  the  messenger's 
package  and  note,  both  of  which  stared  up 
at  her  with  mute  reproach  as  her  eyes  fell 
thoughtlessly  upon  them. 

She  lifted  the  package  from  its  resting- 
place  and  untied  the  string  with  listless 
ringers.  As  she  tore  off  the  wrapping-paper 
and  raised  the  lid  of  the  long  box,  she  uttered 
a  little  exclamation  of  delight  which  made 
Randall,  at  the  next  desk,  look  up  from  his 
work  with  a  sympathetic  smile.  Carefully 
tucked  away  under  waxed  paper,  and  resting 
on  a  bed  of  moss  and  ferns,  were  exquisite 
red  roses,  whose  breath  seemed  like  a  greet 
ing  from  the  southern  land  to  which  her 
homesick  soul  had  but  now  turned.  The 
reporter  buried  her  face  in  their  dewy  fra 
grance,  while  her  eyes  for  a  moment  grew 
dim.  It  was  very  sweet  to  realize  that  some 
one  had  been  thinking  of  her  and  planning 
this  pleasure  for  her  to-night  of  all  nights. 
She  looked  for  the  card  which  should  have 
accompanied  the  flowers,  but  found  none 
189 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

either  among  the  roses  or  in  the  box.  The 
latter  she  now  observed  lacked  the  usual  im 
print  of  the  florist.  There  was  absolutely 
nothing  on  it  to  show  whence  or  from 
whom  it  had  come.  The  note  was  still 
unopened,  and  to  this  she  turned.  A  thick 
sheet  of  creamy  paper,  typewritten  on  both 
sides,  fell  from  the  envelope  as  she  cut  the 
edges.  It  bore  neither  date  nor  signature, 
but  the  printed  words  stood  out  boldly  on 
the  white  page,  and  these  were  clear  enough. 
Miss  Bancroft  crossed  her  feet  comfortably, 
leaned  back  in  her  chair,  and  began  to  read. 

"DEAR  Miss  BANCROFT,  —  You  do  not  know 
me,  and  I  beg  that  you  will  make  no  effort  to  dis 
cover  who  I  am.  Excellent  reasons  forbid  my 
coming  to  you  and  telling  you  what  you  are  to 
me.  There  is  a  barrier  between  us  which  nothing 
can  remove,  and  I  can  only  look  from  behind  it  for 
such  glimpses  of  your  face  as  I  may  get.  To  you 
I  can  be  only  a  shadow.  To  me  you  have  been 
and  are  the  inspiration  that  has  helped  me  to  go 
steadily  on  in  the  way  marked  out  for  me.  Per 
haps  it  may  please  you  a  little  to  know  this,  and  to 
realize  that  there  is  a  human  being  near  you  whom 
your  mere  existence  has  made  happy.  Sometimes 
190 


A  Romance  of  the  City  Room 

I  know  that  you  are  tired,  for  I  can  see  behind  the 
brave,  unflinching  spirit  you  show  to  the  world. 
At  such  times  I  long  to  say  something  to  comfort 
you  —  but  I  may  not.  Will  it  interest  you  to 
know  that  you  have  a  devoted  and  unselfish  friend 
to  whom  you  are  more  than  all  the  world  ?  If  it 
will,  remember  this.  Please  accept  the  roses  as  a 
small  reminder  of  the  southern  land  we  both  love." 

Miss  Bancroft  experienced  a  revival  of 
interest  in  life.  She  read  the  letter  again, 
seeking  vainly  for  some  clew  which  might 
lead  to  discovery  of  the  writer.  Her  thoughts 
swept  quickly  around  the  circle  of  her  friends 
and  associates  on  "  The  Searchlight."  As 
suredly  one  of  these  was  the  man.  One  by 
one  she  called  them  up  in  mental  review, 
dismissing  some  quickly,  others  more  doubt 
fully,  but  all  finally.  She  glanced  again  at 
the  bowed  heads  of  the  men  around  her.  It 
was  impossible  to  picture  any  of  them  as  the 
author  of  the  letter  she  held  in  her  hand. 
Several  of  them  had  loved  her  and  had  told 
her  so,  with  the  engaging  frankness  of  their 
kind.  Many  of  the  others  were  happily  mar 
ried  or  engaged,  or  in  love  with  "  sweet  girls  " 
whose  photographs  they  had  exhibited  to  her 
191 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

with  pride.  A  few  were  too  cold  or  too 
ambitious,  she  thought,  to  care  for  any  one. 
The  barrier  of  which  her  unknown  friend 
wrote  was  a  tangible  one.  It  concealed  him 
well. 

Miss  Bancroft  took  the  note  and  flowers 
home  with  her  that  night  and  fell  asleep  with 
the  fragrance  of  the  roses  filling  her  rooms. 
It  greeted  her  again  as  she  awoke  refreshed 
and  ready  to  take  up  the  work  of  the  day  in 
her  usual  blithe  spirit.  The  morning  sun, 
pouring  through  her  open  windows,  fell  lov 
ingly  on  the  great  roses  which  some  one  had 
lavished  on  her.  She  speculated  over  them 
pleasantly  as  she  dressed,  but  after  she  reached 
the  office  its  rush  and  swirl  banished  them 
and  the  sender  from  her  mind. 

She  had  almost  forgotten  both  when  the 
second  letter  came  exactly  a  week  later. 
The  long  box  and  the  creamy  envelope  lay 
side  by  side  on  her  desk  as  she  entered  "  The 
Searchlight's "  city  room  late  Friday  night, 
and  she  broke  into  a  gay  smile  even  over 
these  prosaic  things.  It  made  Randall,  sit 
ting  next  to  her,  speculate  long  and  moodily 
as  to  the  giver.  There  was  no  uncertainty 
192 


A  Romance  of  the  City  Room 

about  her  facts  on  this  occasion,  and  she 
plunged  into  her  story  with  a  vigor  and  evi 
dent  zest  which  made  the  muscles  in  the 
lips  of  the  night  city  editor  relax  percept 
ibly  as  he  observed  her.  When  he  glanced 
at  her  again  two  hours  later  she  had  finished 
her  story  and  was  lifting  a  mass  of  dewy  red 
roses  from  the  long  box,  whereupon  the  night 
city  editor  looked  wise  and  thought  he  under 
stood  the  situation,  but  did  not  in  the  least. 

The  second  letter,  written  on  the  type 
writer  like  the  first,  was  a  little  longer  than 
its  predecessor.  Miss  Bancroft  read  and  re 
read  it  slowly. 

"DEAR  Miss  BANCROFT, — Your  acceptance  of 
the  flowers  made  me  very  happy.  It  is  infinitely 
sweet  to  me  to  have  even  so  slight  a  bond  between 
us  as  the  presence  of  my  roses  in  your  home.  Will 
you  let  them  speak  for  me  as  I  may  not  speak  for 
myself?  They  will  ask  for  nothing;  they  will 
only  tell  you  that  in  the  big  and  selfish  world  in 
which  we  live  there  is  a  man  who  loves  you,  who 
is  watching  over  you,  who  is  doing  all  that  a  shadow 
can  do  to  guard  you  and  smooth  the  path  for  the 
dear  feet  that  should  not  be  making  life's  journey 
all  alone.  The  knowledge  of  this  cannot  hurt  you. 
13  193 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

There  is  nothing  disrepectful  in  the  honest  love  of 
a  man,  even  though  that  man  is  unknown.  I  know 
there  are  many  others  who  love  you,  too.  I  do 
not  know  whether  there  is  any  one  who  has  won 
your  heart.  I  do  not  seek  to  know.  I  believe 
I  love  you  well  enough,  unselfishly  enough,  to 
rejoice  when  some  happy  man,  who  is  worthy 
of  you,  marries  you  and  takes  you  away  from  us. 
Every  womanly  woman  is  happiest  in  the  home 
of  a  loving  wife,  and  you  are  all  womanliness. 
Good-night.  Take  the  roses  home  with  you, 
and  let  them  speak  of  rest,  and  peace,  and  happy 
dreams." 

There  was  a  puzzled  look  in  Miss  Ban 
croft's  brown  eyes  as  she  laid  the  letter  down. 
She  speculated  over  it  on  her  way  home  that 
night,  and  the  next  day,  to  her  dismay,  she 
discovered  that  the  mystery  was  making  her 
self-conscious.  She  found  herself  looking 
with  suspicious  eyes  at  her  good  friends  on 
"  The  Searchlight."  The  frank  and  warm 
camaraderie  of  her  associates,  which  had 
been  so  pleasant  a  feature  of  her  journalistic 
life,  seemed  to  her  now,  in  some  spots,  the 
cloak  of  a  deeper  affection.  She  tried  to 
analyze  the  feeling  back  of  the  courtesies 
194 


A  Romance  of  the  City  Room 

that  were  shown  her,  and  the  invariable 
good  fellowship  with  which  she  was  treated. 
She  was,  however,  too  well  poised  to  per 
mit  this  condition  to  last.  As  successive 
Fridays  came,  always  bringing  their  red  roses 
and  their  odd  concomitant,  a  typewritten 
letter  which  breathed  the  most  delicate  tender 
ness,  her  interest  in  the  unknown  sender 
grew  deeper  and  softer.  All  unconsciously, 
perhaps,  her  hidden  correspondent  was  lay 
ing  bare  his  soul  to  the  woman  he  loved.  It 
was  a  noble  and  upright  soul,  she  recognized. 
The  whole  world  might  have  read  the  simple, 
manly  letters  in  which  week  after  week  he 
poured  out  his  heart  to  her.  Nor  were  they 
wholly  sentimental  letters.  The  Shadow 
was  consistent  in  his  resolve  to  ask  for 
nothing  while  giving  all.  When  she  had 
learned  to  acquiesce  in  his  incognito  and 
ceased  marvelling  at  his  complete  knowledge 
of  her  and  her  life,  she  discovered,  as  the 
months  went  by,  that  the  strong  personality 
behind  these  weekly  letters  had  become  one 
of  the  most  powerful  influences  in  her  career. 
The  Shadow's  point  of  view  was  unique. 
His  letters  were  sometimes  long,  sometimes 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

short,  always  interesting.  He  touched  lightly 
on  many  subjects,  and  she  was  the  gainer.  He 
commented  on  the  style  of  her  stories.  He 
criticised  her  English,  and  gave  her  a  list  of 
books  for  reference  and  study.  He  praised 
her  work  freely,  where  there  was  ground  for 
praise,  and  criticised  sharply  and  discrimi 
natingly  where  censure  was  demanded.  He 
suggested  and  advised  as  only  a  loyal  friend 
could,  and  beneath  it  all  was  an  under 
current  of  deep,  unselfish  tenderness  that 
touched  her  heart.  The  sweet  unspoiled 
nature  of  the  woman  responded  to  this  as  the 
flowers  he  brought  her  responded  to  her  care 
of  them.  Unconsciously,  as  time  passed,  she 
grew  to  lean  on  him,  to  watch  for  his  letters, 
to  rely  on  his  judgment,  to  act  in  important 
matters  as  she  believed  that  he  would  have 
her  act.  The  atmosphere  of  his  sturdy  devo 
tion  was  as  real  and  as  sweet  to  her  as  the 
perfume  of  his  roses. 

"  Don't  be  too  pathetic  in  your  pathetic 
tales,"  he  wrote  her  once.  "  Let  your  read 
ers  shed  their  own  tears ; "  and  the  memory 
of  the  terse  comment  was  a  fixed  one,  which 
strengthened  her  work  materially. 
196 


A  Romance  of  the  City  Room 

"  You  are  looking  pale,"  he  said  another 
time.  "  Take  a  few  days  off  and  go  to 
Avondale.  It  is  only  two  hours  from  New 
York,  but  it 's  plunged  [in.  the  profoundest 
slumber.  It 's  the  ideal  spot  for  tired  brains 
and  nerves.  All  around  it  are  hills,  which 
shut  out  the  big  bustling  world.  In  it  are 
quaint  old-fashioned  houses,  and  men  and 
women  not  less  old-fashioned  and  equally 
quaint.  Over  the  peaceful  little  river  that 
flows  through  the  town  are  rustic  bridges, 
where  you  can  sit  and  dream,  or  fish  if  you 
care  to  (you  '11  never  catch  anything),  and 
look  at  the  willows  waving  in  the  summer 
breeze  and  the  cows  standing  knee-deep  in 
the  clover-fields.  The  air  is  full  of  the 
perfume  of  old-fashioned  flowers  that  grow 
in  every  garden.  You  will  find  bowls  of 
them  in  your  room  at  night,  and  the  room 
itself  will  smell  of  lavender.  Go  there,  take 
Lubbock's  '  Pleasures  of  Life  '  with  you,  — 
and  forget  for  forty-eight  hours  that  there  is 
a  newspaper  in  the  world." 

The  letter  came  to  her  one  hot  Friday  night 
in  August.  The  next  morning  she  took  the 
train  for  Avondale,  where  she  spent  two 
197 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

ideally  restful  days.  She  found  the  little 
town  exactly  as  he  had  pictured  it,  and  as 
she  strolled  along  its  quiet  streets  she  won 
dered  how  the  Shadow  had  come  to  know  it, 
and  when  he  had  been  there  last.  For  a 
moment,  the  idea  lingered  with  her  that,  per 
haps,  after  all,  they  were  to  meet.  It  had 
been  more  than  a  year  since  the  first  box  of 
roses  had  come  to  her  as  the  one  bright  epi 
sode  of  a  depressing  day.  But  if  he  had  ever 
been  in  Avondale,  he  had  apparently  come 
and  gone  as  mysteriously  as  he  seemed  to  do 
everything  else.  She  made  no  secret  of  her 
own  identity  or  work,  but  the  "  quaint  men 
and  women  "  who  eyed  her  with  such  art 
less  curiosity  gratified  her  with  no  reminis 
cences,  and  had  evidently  never  before  seen 
a  representative  of  a  great  modern  news 
paper.  Helen  Bancroft  went  cheerily  back 
to  her  work  and  her  role  as  the  inspiration  of 
a  shadow,  and  if  the  thought  occurred  to  her 
that  the  role  was  a  trifle  unsatisfactory  be 
cause  of  the  steadfast  obscurity  of  that 
shadow,  she  stifled  it  as  one  would  check 
disloyal  thought  of  a  friend.  The  conviction 
had  already  come  to  her  woman's  soul  that 
198 


A  Romance  of  the  City  Room 

what  he  desired  was  best.  She  seemed  to 
herself  to  be  living  in  two  worlds  —  one,  the 
rushing,  practical  planet  on  which  she  worked 
by  day ;  the  other,  a  peaceful,  happy  sphere 
wherein  he  dwelt,  and  whither  his  letters 
sometimes  transported  her. 

For  more  than  two  years  the  letters  and 
the  red  roses  came  with  unbroken  regularity. 
When  at  last  a  certain  Friday  evening 
arrived  and  they  did  not,  Miss  Bancroft 
stared  at  the  top  of  her  unvisited  desk  as 
if  some  perplexing  phenomenon  had  taken 
place.  She  would  have  been  scarcely  less 
surprised  at  the  failure  of  a  physical  law 
than  by  this  lack  of  fidelity  —  she  could  not 
call  it  forgetfulness  or  indifference  —  on  the 
part  of  the  Shadow.  The  face  of  the  world 
seemed  changed  to  her  as  she  went  home 
that  night,  and  the  sudden  realization  of 
what  this  meant  made  her  heart  contract. 
Perhaps  he  was  only  testing  her  —  proving 
to  her  at  last  what  a  factor  in  her  life  he 
had  come  to  be.  But  she  rejected  this 
thought  at  once ;  she  did  not  know  his  name 
or  face,  but  she  knew  the  man  too  well  to 
199 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

think  self-love  could  thus  claim  him,  even 
for  a  moment.  Perhaps  all  was  not  well 
with  him.  There  had  been  a  persistent 
minor  note  in  his  recent  letters,  bravely  as 
he  had  tried  to  stifle  it.  Last  week's  roses, 
almost  withered  now,  looked  sadly  up  at  her 
as  she  entered  her  apartment.  She  had  kept 
the  flowers,  of  late,  until  the  next  box  came 
to  replace  them.  To-night,  as  she  watered 
the  grateful  roses,  her  imagination  saw  in 
their  droop  and  languor  the  mute  symbol  of 
the  passing  from  her  life  of  something  of 
whose  full  sweetness  she  was  just  beginning 
to  be  conscious. 

The  days  went  on,  and  brought  no  sign 
from  the  Shadow.  They  all  seemed  alike 
to  the  young  reporter,  who  kept  her  sad 
reflections  in  her  own  heart  and  gave  no 
outward  sign.  She  felt  her  friend  drifting 
from  her,  perhaps  through  a  misapprehension 
which  she  had  no  power  to  correct.  It  was 
as  much  beyond  her  to  reach  or  affect  him 
as  if  he  lived  in  truth  in  another  world  which 
he  had  shared  with  her,  but  from  which  she 
was  now  shut  out.  She  missed  his  flowers, 
she  missed  his  letters ;  above  all,  she  missed 
200 


A  Romance  of  the  City  Room 

the  sense  of  companionship  and  protecting 
tenderness  which  had  enveloped  her  so  mys 
teriously  and  so  long. 

She  was  recalling  these  things  one  cold 
night  in  February  when  she  wearily  entered 
her  apartment.  On  the  hearth,  in  her  cosey 
study,  a  bright  fire  burned  cheerily.  The 
attentive  maid  had  drawn  up  to  it  her  favorite 
easy-chair  and  had  placed  her  slippers  near 
the  warm  glow.  She  sank  into  the  chair 
with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction,  brushing  the  snow 
from  her  jacket,  and  recklessly  exposing  the 
soles  of  her  little  boots  to  the  heat  as  she 
settled  her  feet  on  the  fender.  The  sudden 
blaze  that  had  greeted  her  had  died  down,  and 
the  room  was  almost  in  shadow.  As  her 
eyes  wandered  listlessly  over  her  books  and 
pictures  they  fell  on  something  oddly  familiar. 
Was  that  great  vase  on  the  table,  which 
had  held  the  Shadow's  offering  for  so  long, 
again  full  of  fresh  red  roses  ?  Miss  Bancroft 
rubbed  her  eyes  and  looked  more  closely. 
Had  she  fallen  asleep  and  was  she  dreaming 
of  the  roses  that  had  filled  it  so  constantly 
until  three  months  ago  ?  The  perfume  of  the 
flowers  seemed  very  real.  They  w ere  there  — 
201 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

u  the  beautiful  darlings  ! "  she  whispered,  as 
she  went  to  them  and  laid  her  face  against 
them.  To  her  excited  fancy  they  seemed 
to  laugh  up  at  her.  "  Here  we  are  again," 
they  said.  "It's  all  right,  —  everything  is 
unchanged ;  "  and  the  whole  world  was 
brighter  for  the  assurance.  She  lit  the 
gas  hastily  and  rang  the  bell.  There  had 
been  no  letter  with  the  flowers,  the  little 
maid  told  her.  They  had  come  without  a 
card  about  four  that  afternoon,  and  she  had 
taken  them  out  of  the  box  and  put  them  in 
water  as  she  knew  Mademoiselle  would  have 
wished.  The  box  ?  But  yes,  here  it  is  — 
a  large  and  ornate  affair,  with  the  name  of  a 
famous  florist  on  its  cover  in  gold  letters. 
This  unusual  feature  surprised  and  temporarily 
disturbed  Miss  Bancroft.  Never  before  had 
the  Shadow  sent  her  such  a  clew.  Surely,  if 
she  wished,  it  would  be  comparatively  easy  to 
trace  him  now.  She  dismissed  the  idea  from 
her  mind  for  the  present.  He  was  still  her 
friend,  and  all  was  well  with  him.  He  had 
sent  her  the  roses  to  tell  her  so.  That  was 
enough. 

She  dressed  for  dinner  in  high  spirits,  put- 
202 


A  Romance  of  the  City  Room 

ting  on  her  best  gown  in  honor  of  this  spiritual 
caller,  and  singing  a  favorite  song  which  was 
in  harmony  with  her  mood.  The  little  maid 
smiled  to  hear  again  the  blithe  notes  that  had 
been  silent  of  late. 

'*  For  the  spring,  the  spring  is  coming, 

'T  is  good-by  to  ice  and  snow, 
Yes,  I  know  it,  for  the  swallows 
Have  come  back  to  tell  me  so," 

sang  the  soft  contralto  voice.  Spring  had 
already  come  in  her  heart  —  for  the  roses 
told  her  so. 

Herforth  called  on  her  after  dinner,  for 
mally  arrayed  in  his  evening  clothes,  and 
with  a  startling  chrysanthemum  in  his  button 
hole.  His  first  words  lowered  Miss  Bancroft's 
spirits. 

"  Got  the  roses,  I  see,"  he  said,  nodding 
toward  the  blooming  jacqueminots  in  the 
vase  on  the  table. 

"  Did  —  did  you  send  them  ?  "  faltered 
the  girl.  She  was  conscious  of  a  sinking 
sensation,  as  if  something  were  falling  away 
from  her. 

u  Only  in  a  way,"  said  Herforth  at  once. 
203 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

41 1  acted  as  an  agent."  He  had  dropped 
into  an  easy-chair,  and  as  he  spoke  he  re 
garded  her  rather  curiously  with  his  sleepy 
blue  eyes. 

"  Do  you  remember  Hatfeld  ?  "  he  went 
on.  "  Awfully  good-looking  chap,  with  light 
hair  and  dark  eyes.  Reserved,  but  I  found 
him  one  of  the  most  charming  fellows  I  ever 
met  when  I  came  to  know  him.  Nobody 
on  the  paper  knew  him  well  except  me. 
Was  n't  at  the  office  much  except  at  night, 
and  then  did  his  work  in  a  little  room  off  the 
night  editor's  sanctum.  I  liked  him  and 
dined  with  him  a  lot,  and  he  used  to  let  me 
talk  about  you  most  of  the  time.  Well,  he 
was  consumptive,  poor  fellow.  Did  n't  tell 
me  anything  about  it  until  three  months  ago, 
when  he  went  to  Algiers  for  his  health.  The 
night  before  he  sailed  we  dined  together,  and 
went  afterwards  to  my  room  to  smoke.  Am 
I  boring  you  with  all  this." 

"  Go  on,  please,"  said  Miss  Bancroft,  in  a 
low  tone. 

She  was  standing  at  the  window  looking 
out  at  the  snow,  which  was  falling  heavily. 
The  sudden  question  evidently  startled  her, 
204 


A  Romance  of  the  City  Room 

for  she  shivered  slightly  as  she  turned  toward 
the  young  man  and  then  glanced  away  again. 

"  We  talked  a  good  deal,"  continued  Her- 
forth,  animatedly,  "  and  I  tried  to  brace  him 
up  as  well  as  I  could.  Prophesied  that  he  M 
come  back  in  six  months  perfectly  well  — 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  It  had  no  effect 
on  him,  but  he  was  awfully  cool  and  plucky 
about  his  condition.  He  told  me  that  his 
father  and  mother  had  both  died  of  con 
sumption,  and  that  the  doctors  had  given  him 
no  hope.  He  said  that  was  why  he  had 
never  married.  He  would  not  make  the 
woman  he  loved  wretched  and  hand  down 
a  legacy  of  physical  ill  to  his  children.  And 
then  he  said  something  that  will  interest 
you." 

Herforth  had  been  speaking  rather  lightly, 
but  if  she  had  noticed  it  Miss  Bancroft  would 
have  known  that  beneath  the  careless  tone 
lay  a  warm  sympathy  for  his  friend.  She 
did  not  notice  it.  She  was  not  thinking:  of 

o 

Herforth  just  then.  His  few  words  had 
brought  before  her  very  vividly  the  farewell 
scene  he  was  describing.  She  saw  the  two 
men  together,  and  while  the  face  of  one  was 

205 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

hidden  from  her  she  could  see  in  his  attitude 
the  despair  against  which  he  had  so  bravely 
fought.  She  left  the  window  and  sat  down 
in  a  low  chair,  her  face  a  little  in  the  shadow. 
Herforth  went  on  slowly  and  more  seriously. 

"Just  before  we  parted,  Hatfeld  turned 
to  me  and  said  :  '  I  'm  going  to  have  them 
cable  you  when  it  's  all  over,  old  man  —  not 
that  I  want  to  depress  you,  but  because  I 
want  you  to  do  something  for  me.  Don't 
ask  me  why  or  anything  about  it.  But  when 
you  receive  that  cablegram,  I  want  you  to 
send  a  box  of  red  roses  to  Miss  Bancroft.'  " 

Herforth  paused  a  moment  and  poked  the 
fire  with  creditable  considerateness.  His 
voice  had  become  a  trifle  unsteady.  Though 
he  could  not  have  analyzed  it,  for  he  knew 
they  had  never  met,  there  was  something  in 
Miss  Bancroft's  manner  as  she  listened  which 
moved  him  strangely.  She  looked  at  him 
and  opened  her  lips,  but  closed  them  again 
without  speaking.  The  expression  in  her 
beautiful  eyes  made  Herforth  turn  his  own 
away. 

"  I  got  the  cablegram  this  morning,"  he 
said  softly. 

206 


MISS   VAN    DYKE'S 
BEST   STORY 


207 


MISS  VAN  DYKE'S  BEST  STORY. 

WHEN  Miss  Van  Dyke  joined  the 
staff  of  the  "  Evening  Globe,"  the 
men  of  that  small  but  ably  conducted  sheet 
bestowed  on  her  a  due  amount  of  critical  ob 
servation.  After  cursory  but  thorough  con 
sideration  of  her  appearance  and  manner,  they 
decided  that  she  u  was  all  right,"  as  Matthews, 
the  political  editor,  elegantly  put  it.  That 
important  point  being  settled,  they  proceeded 
to  waste  a  great  deal  of  their  time  at  her  desk, 
telling  her  about  their  wives  or  sweethearts  and 
their  personal  affairs.  This  retarded  her  work 
and  annoyed  the  managing  editor  ;  but  it  gave 
her  a  sweet  sense  of  good-fellowship  with 
her  associates,  and  made  her  very  happy.  As 
she  was  fully  twenty-three,  she  gave  the 
younger  reporters  much  motherly  advice, 
which  they  immediately  forgot,  and  assumed 
the  role  of  sister  to  several  of  the  older 
ones.  On  the  very  rare  occasions  when  she 
worked  late  at  the  office,  one  of  her  fellow- 
14  209 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

workers  escorted  her  home,  or,  if  this  was 
impossible,  the  city  editor  sent  a  messenger 
boy  with  her.  She  was  a  small  woman,  with 
appealing  blue  eyes  and  the  usual  journalistic 
assortment  of  nerves.  They  felt  it  was  quite 
out  of  the  question  for  her  to  be  on  the 
streets  at  night  alone,  —  in  which  opinion 
Miss  Van  Dyke  concurred. 

She  did  not  say  much  about  herself,  having 
discovered  at  an  early  period  of  her  news 
paper  experience  that  the  interest  her  good 
comrades  felt  in  the  conversation  lagged  as 
soon  as  they  ceased  to  do  the  talking.  Never 
theless,  on  several  occasions  she  had  managed 
to  inject  into  the  train  of  reminiscences  a  few 
of  her  own,  and  one  of  these  had  made  the 
rounds  of  the  office  and  was  generally  re 
garded  as  very  touching. 

"When  I  left  the  convent,"  said  Miss 
Van  Dyke,  in  telling  the  story  to  her  ardent 
champion,  Matthews,  "  the  nuns  knew  that  I 
had  decided  to  go  into  journalism.  One  of 
them,  Sister  Clare,  was  very  fond  of  me,  as 
I  was  of  her.  The  day  I  was  graduated,  she 
took  me  into  the  convent  garden  for  a  little 
farewell  advice.  It  was  all  very  good,  and  I 
210 


Miss  Van  Dyke's  Best  Story 

was  very  much  touched  —  especially  by  her 
last  words.  I  shall  never  forget  them.  As 
she  kissed  me  good-by,  she  held  me  in  her 
arms  an  instant,  and  said  :  '  Farewell,  little 
one.  May  angels  ever  guide  your  pen  !  ' 

u  I  think  of  it  so  often,"  added  Miss  Van 
Dyke,  looking  up  into  the  young  man's  face 
with  childlike  eyes  dimmed  by  the  recollec 
tion.  "  And  when  I  have  a  story  that  is  at 
all  unpleasant  to  handle,  I  keep  that  advice 
in  mind.  It  has  prevented  me  from  making 
a  great  many  mistakes,  I  'm  sure.  One 
could  n't  write  improper  or  slangy  things 
with  those  sweet  words  in  mind." 

The  picture  appealed  to  the  office  taste. 
It  was  pleasant  to  think  of  little  Miss  Van 
Dyke  (they  always  punctiliously  gave  her  the 
title)  "turning  out  her  copy  in  the  shadow 
of  an  angel's  wing,"  as  the  sporting  editor 
remarked.  That  youth  was  so  deeply  af 
fected  by  the  charm  of  the  incident  that  he 
once  referred  to  it  with  almost  lachrymose 
feeling,  after  a  very  late  supper,  and  actually 
came  to  blows  with  some  one  who  laughed 
at  him.  He  got  a  black  eye  for  his  pains. 
Miss  Van  Dyke  saw  the  bruise  the  next 
211 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

morning  when  he  came  to  the  office.  There 
was,  in  fact,  little  that  her  sharply  observing 
blue  eyes  did  not  see,  but  she  never  heard 
the  story  of  its  origin.  She  continued  to 
turn  out  innocuous  copy,  and  to  suggest,  by 
request,  appropriate  birthday  and  Christmas 
presents  for  the  wives  of  her  friends. 
She  also  listened  earnestly  to  the  recital 
of  long  conversations  that  had  taken  place 
between  reporters  and  the  young  women 
with  whom  they  were  in  love.  Miss  Van 
Dyke  interpreted  to  the  reporters  what  the 
young  women  might  have  meant  by  certain 
remarks,  and  as  her  sweet  good-nature  un 
consciously  made  these  interpretations  bear  a 
somewhat  flattering  air,  her  popularity  grew 
apace.  Even  the  office  boys  heeded  her  mild 
requests,  and  the  managing  editor  went  the 
length  of  remarking  that  she  was  a  hard 
working,  level-headed  little  woman. 

A  few  days  after  this  momentous  dictum, 
the  managing  editor  accepted  a  suggestion 
from  his  chief  to  retire  from  the  manage 
ment  of  the  "  Evening  Globe."  His  suc 
cessor  came  into  the  office  unhampered  by 
any  knowledge  of  the  members  of  the  staff. 
212 


Miss  Van  Dyke's  Best  Story 

He  gave  out  an  oracular  utterance  to  the 
effect  that  he  was  after  "  hot  stuff "  for  the 
paper,  and  consequently  the  reporters,  wish 
ing  to  retain  their  official  heads,  bestirred 
themselves  to  give  him  what  he  wanted. 

He  was  a  young  man  of  intense  and  fever 
ish  activity,  and  the  repose  of  Miss  Van 
Dyke's  manner  did  not  appeal  to  him.  So, 
too,  her  correct  and  colorless  little  stones, 
perhaps  because  constructed  in  the  cool 
shadow  of  the  angel's  wings,  struck  him  as 
having  no  "  go  !  "  Being  a  young  man  of 
frank  nature,  he  did  not  take  the  trouble  to 
conceal  his  impression,  and  Miss  Van  Dyke 
awoke  to  the  painful  consciousness  that  she 
was  disapproved  of  by  the  new  editor. 

She  was  thinking  of  this  as  she  stood  at  a 
window  in  the  editorial  rooms  about  half-past 
six  o'clock  on  the  afternoon  of  election  day. 
There  rose  to  her  ears,  from  tc  Newspaper 
Row,"  the  din  of  tin  horns,  fervently  tooted 
by  enthusiastic  Tammanyites,  who  saw  the 
approaching  end  of  the  so-called  "  reform 
administration."  Even  at  this  early  hour  it 
was  admitted  that  Tammany  had  carried 
Greater  New  York  by  a  sweeping  plurality. 
213 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

The  frantic  shouts  of  loyal  adherents  of  the 
Wigwam  came  to  her  from  City  Hall  Park, 
where  the  crowd  was  watching  the  bulletins 
in  front  of  the  great  newspaper  offices  for 
the  returns.  The  entire  staff  of  the  "  Even 
ing  Globe "  was  still  on  duty,  its  members 
toiling  in  the  city  room  with  tense  nerves  and 
haggard  faces.  From  the  basement  came 
the  thunder  of  the  presses  as  they  ground 
out  the  extras  containing  the  latest  news. 

Miss  Van  Dyke  knew  that  with  the  single 
exception  of  herself  every  woman  on  the 
paper  was  hard  at  work.  The  reflection  was 
not  a  pleasant  one.  She  brooded  over  it  as 
her  sorrowful  eyes  looked  at  the  surging 
throng  below  her.  While  she  gazed  ab 
stractedly  at  it  a  great  roar  came  from  the 
packed  mass  of  humanity  across  the  street. 
Another  district  had  sent  in  returns  for  Tam 
many.  The  ringing  cheer  swept  through  the 
crowds  in  Park  Row  and  across  City  Hall 
Park,  to  be  taken  up  by  other  throats  and 
sent  in  waves  of  sound  up  Broadway. 

«  Well,  well,  well, 
Reform  has  gone  to  Hell," 

214 


Miss  Van  Dyke's  Best  Story 

rang  in  her  ears  from  the  hoarsely  shrieking 
throats  of  thousands  of  excited  men.  Miss 
Van  Dyke  turned  from  the  window  with  a 
shocked  expression. 

Matthews  brushed  past  her,  his  hat  on  the 
back  of  his  head,  his  tie  under  his  ear,  his 
expression  eloquent  of  disgust.  He  had  not 
a  word  or  glance  for  her  —  he  who  was  usu 
ally  her  most  loyal  and  devoted  slave,  and 
who  had  assured  her  that  he  should  always 
continue  to  be  at  least  this,  as  she  would 
make  him  nothing  more. 

"  A  landslide  for  Tammany,  is  n't  it  ?  " 
called  one  of  the  artists  as  Matthews  passed 
his  easel.  "  Everything  will  be  wide-open 
after  this  !  Good  times  coming  in  the  Ten 
derloin  again.  Eh,  old  man  ?  " 

u  Coming,"  repeated  Matthews,  with  con 
temptuous  scorn.  "  They  've  come.  It 's 
broken  loose  already.  The  Tenderloin  has 
been  celebrating  for  two  hours  past.  By 
this  time  it 's  a  blaze  of  the  old-time 
glory." 

He  strode  on,  into  the  managing  editor's 
office.  With  a  sudden  impulse  Miss  Van 
Dyke  followed  him.  An  inspiration  had 
2I5 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

seized  her,  and  she  acted  upon  it  without 
giving  herself  time  for  a  second  thought. 

Her  timid  rap  on  the  editor's  door  was 
unheard.  She  pushed  it  open  and  entered 
the  "  kennel,"  as  the  box  of  a  room  was 
irreverently  styled  by  the  staff.  The  tired- 
looking  young  man  sat  at  his  desk,  which 
was  littered  with  papers,  telegrams,  and  long 
columns  of  u  returns."  He  was  talking 
quickly  to  Matthews  when  she  entered,  and 
both  men  looked  in  surprise  at  the  small 
black  figure  before  them. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  hesitated  the  girl. 
"  I  am  sorry  to  interrupt  you,  but  I  have  a 
suggestion  for  a  special  which  I  thought  you 
might  like  to  have  me  work  up." 

The  managing  editor's  lips  twitched  rather 
impatiently,  but  he  answered  her  with  the 
businesslike  courtesy  he  showed  to  all  the 
women  who  worked  for  him. 

"  Thank  you,  Miss  Van  Dyke,"  he  said, 
"  but  we  're  very  busy  now.  If  you  don't 
mind  waiting  until  morning  I  can  give  your 
suggestion  more  careful  consideration." 

ct  I  'm  afraid  it 's  something  that  won't 
wait,"  the  girl  persisted.  She  flushed  a  little. 
216 


Miss  Van  Dyke's  Best  Story 

u  I  want  you,"  she  added,  "  to  let  me  do  the 
Tenderloin  to-night — to  describe  its  cele 
bration  of  Tammany's  victory  from  a  wo 
man's  point  of  view." 

Matthews  uttered  a  startled  ejaculation,  but 
neither  Miss  Van  Dyke  nor  the  editor  heard 
it.  The  latter  had  turned  quickly,  a  sudden 
interest  in  his  cool  gray  eyes. 

"  That 's  good,"  he  said  promptly.  "  Do 
it  by  all  means.  New  thing  —  fresh  point 
of  view.  Write  the  best  story  you  ever 
wrote  in  your  life.  You  've  got  a  splendid 
chance  to  turn  in  a  good  piece  of  work." 

He  thought  a  moment,  and  added  more 
slowly  :  u  Of  course  you  must  have  some 
one  with  you.  I  '11  send  Henderson  along, 
and  you  can  go  from  place  to  place  in  a 
carriage.  Or  perhaps  Matthews  would  like 
to  go,"  he  added,  turning  to  that  young  man 
with  a  sudden  twinkle  in  his  eyes,  which 
showed  that  he  had  not  been  so  oblivious  to 
the  social  conditions  of  the  office  as  he  had 
seemed. 

At  this  opening  Matthews  broke  out  in 
vigorous  expostulation. 

"  She  can't  go,"  he  said  excitedly.  "  It 's 
217 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

madness.  I  don't  know  what  you  're  think 
ing  ofo  It 's  not  Miss  Van  Dyke's  kind  of 
a  story  at  all.  Why  don't  you  send  Miss 
Masters  if  you  want  a  Tenderloin  special  ?  " 
he  demanded,  forgetting  the  deference  due 
his  superior  officer  in  his  agitation. 

The  editor  considered  his  objections 
gravely. 

"  That 's  true,  Miss  Van  Dyke,"  he  said, 
turning  to  her  with  a  sudden  lapse  of  interest. 
"  It  is  n't  your  kind  of  a  story,  you  know. 
Are  you  quite  sure  you  realize  what  you  're 
attempting  ?  " 

"  I  should  like  to  take  the  assignment," 
the  newspaper  woman  returned  nervously 
but  firmly.  "  I  think  I  can  give  you  what 
you  want.  At  least,  I  '11  do  my  best." 

"Well,  all  right  then,"  said  the  young 
man,  briskly.  He  tapped  his  bell,  and  told 
the  office  boy  who  responded  to  get  Hen 
derson  and  a  carriage.  When  Henderson 
entered,  almost  at  once,  he  gave  him  some 
concise  directions  in  a  low  tone.  Then  he 
turned  again  to  Miss  Van  Dyke. 

"  I  think  a  couple  of  hours  uptown  will  be 
enough,"  he  said  kindly.  "  It  won't  be  a 
218 


Miss  Van  Dyke's  Best  Story 

pleasant  experience  for  you.  Then  come 
back  to  the  office  and  write  the  story  while 
it  is  fresh.  Turn  it  in  to  me  when  you  've 
finished  it  and  go  home  for  a  good  rest.  Of 
course  we  won't  expect  you  down  to-morrow, 
as  we'll  have  your  copy  all  ready  for  the 
first  edition  in  the  morning.  I  Ve  told  Hen 
derson  to  take  you  to  a  few  places  only,  but 
they  're  typical,  and  you  '11  get  the  atmosphere. 
Are  you  going,  Matthews  ?  " 

With  words  much  too  emphatic  that  youth 
declared  that  he  was  not,  and  reiterated  his 
reasons,  to  which  the  managing  editor  lent 
but  an  indifferent  ear.  He  had  turned  to  his 
desk  and  was  deep  in  the  election  returns 
again,  so  that  he  did  not  even  hear  Miss  Van 
Dyke's  timid  "  good-night "  as  she  left  his 
office.  He  had,  in  fact,  forgotten  her  and 
her  assignment  within  five  minutes  after  her 
departure.  This  was  not  the  case  with  the 
now  miserable  Matthews. 

When  Miss  Van  Dyke  returned  to  the 
office  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  she 
found  that  young  man  awaiting  her  with 
anguish  on  his  brow.  He  had  confided  to 
all  his  associates  on  the  "  Evening  Globe  "  the 
219 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

tragedy  of  the  night,  to  which  they  listened 
without  much  comment.  Ordinarily,  it 
would  have  excited  a  great  deal,  but  the 
work  on  election  night  was  too  pressing  to 
permit  of  idle  talk.  He  turned  upon  the 
tired  reporter,  as  she  entered,  a  face  on 
which  reproach  and  scorn  were  strongly 
blended.  She  lifted  her  hand,  and  the  motion 
of  the  delicate  fingers  silenced  the  words  that 
rushed  to  his  lips. 

"  If  you  say  one  word  to  me,"  she  as 
serted,  "  I  shall  cry."  There  was  a  treacher 
ous  break  in  her  voice,  though  she  had  tried 
to  make  the  words  light.  "  I  'm  worn  out," 
she  continued,  "and  I  have  my  story  to 
write  before  I  can  go  home.  I  know  every 
thing  you  want  to  say.  It  will  be  a  waste  of 
time  to  go  over  it.  I  want  to  be  left  in 
peace  to  do  my  work." 

He  opened  his  lips  to  speak,  despite  her 
protest. 

"  If  you  have  any  friendliness  at  all  for 
me,"  she  begged,  "  go  away  and  leave  me 
alone."  And  with  a  lowering  brow  he 
went. 

Miss  Van  Dyke  wrote  her  story,  putting 
220 


Miss  Van  Dyke's  Best  Story 

into  it  the  best  work  of  which  she  was  capa 
ble.  The  wild  scenes  of  the  night  were  like 
a  horrible  dream  in  their  effect  on  the  quiet 
little  woman  who  had  gone  to  them  still  full 
of  memories  of  convent  gardens,  and  dimly 
lighted  chapels  where  black-robed  nuns 
prayed  silently.  She  described  them  vividly 
and  strongly,  setting  them  down  as  she  had 
seen  them,  not  wholly  understanding  what 
she  wrote,  but  giving  to  the  public  a  story 
whose  realism  haunted  many  a  man  and 
woman  who  read  it  the  next  day.  It  was 
the  report  of  innocence  on  vice,  made  with 
the  fidelity  with  which  a  little  child  tells  of 
some  horror  that  it  does  not  comprehend, 
and  for  that  very  reason  describes  the  more 
effectively.  Miss  Van  Dyke  finished  her 
story  as  dawn  was  breaking.  Then  she 
went  alone  through  the  gray  streets,  past 
dimly  burning  lamps,  to  the  elevated  train 
which  carried  her  to  a  station  near  her  up 
town  boarding-house.  There  had  been  no 
arrangement  made  by  the  office  for  her  safe 
conduct  on  this  occasion.  It  had  been  taken 
for  granted  that  a  young  woman  who  had 
done  an  election  night  special,  describing  the 
221 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

gayest  scenes  in  gay  New  York,  could  after 
wards  make  her  way  home  alone. 

She  did  not  come  to  the  office  at  all  the 
next  day.  It  was  well  that  she  did  not,  for 
the  larger  part  of  the  day  was  given  to  the 
discussion  and  mental  digestion  of  u  Little 
Van  Dyke's  story."  For  the  first  time  the 
members  of  the  staff  did  not  trouble  them 
selves  to  say  "  Miss "  Van  Dyke,  which 
they  had  been  so  careful  to  do  before.  The 
quiet  little  woman  and  her  story  were  the 
talk  of  the  office,  and  the  comments  upon 
both  made  Matthews  set  his  teeth.  Hen 
derson  epitomized  the  general  feeling  by  his 
one  remark  at  the  end  of  a  spirited  debate  as 
to  how  much  she  understood  of  what  she 
had  written. 

"  Anyhow,"  he  said,  with  somewhat  feel 
ing  sarcasm,  "  the  angel  was  certainly  off 
duty,  temporarily ; "  and  during  the  yell 
of  laughter  that  followed,  Matthews  was 
conscious  of  a  lust  for  Henderson's  blood 
that  alarmed  him  by  its  intensity.  Later  in  the 
day,  he  overheard  further  remarks  suggesting 
the  general  view  of  Miss  Van  Dyke's  story. 

"  It 's  a  corker,"  said  the  managing  editor, 
222 


Miss  Van  Dyke's  Best  Story 

with  generous  enthusiasm.  "  One  of  the 
best  things  of  the  kind  I  ever  read.  I  might 
have  known  she  had  it  in  her.  That  quiet, 
shrinking  type  of  woman  always  has." 

u  What  a  stunning  bluff  she  put  up  on 
us  !  "  laughed  another  man.  u  She  took  us 
all  in  —  every  one  of  us  —  with  her  convent 
manner  and  her  nursery  eyes.  I  thought  she 
was  fresh  from  vernal  fields,  but  I  guess  she 
knows  a  few  things."  Matthews,  listening 
to  it  all,  wondered  if  he  were  becoming  the 
victim  of  homicidal  mania,  since  there  seemed 
no  other  explanation  for  his  feverish  longing 
for  the  gore  of  these  friends  of  his. 

"  Let 's  make  her  feel  at  home  when  she 
drops  in,"  suggested  the  bright  young  woman 
who  did  sensational  stories  for  the  "  Evening 
Globe."  She  wore  blonde  hair  and  much  red 
paint,  and  she  had  always  resented  keenly  the 
deep  respect  shown  by  the  staff  to  Miss  Van 
Dyke.  The  Tenderloin  story  was  one  she 
would  have  been  glad  to  write  if  she  had 
thought  of  it.  Not  having  done  so,  she  was 
pleased  by  the  sentiment  concerning  Miss 
Van  Dyke  which  that  young  person's  story 
had  called  forth  so  freely. 
223 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

"This  will  do  it,"  she  added  jocosely,  as 
she  produced  a  large  placard  and  nailed  it 
above  Miss  Van  Dyke's  desk.  It  bore  what 
the  bright  young  woman  called  a  sentiment 
appropriate  to  the  occasion.  u  Welcome  to 
Little  Van  Dyke,"  it  read,  in  large  black  let 
ters, —  "the  Tenderfoot  of  the  Tenderloin." 
When  the  brilliant  originator  of  this  heard 
the  laughter  that  greeted  its  appearance,  she 
realized  that  success  had  crowned  her  sisterly 
efforts. 

"  Little  Van  Dyke "  arrived  at  the  office 
at  eight  o'clock  the  next  morning,  and  mar 
velled  at  the  silence  that  fell  over  the  city 
room  as  she  came  in.  The  heads  that  usu 
ally  rose  to  greet  her  remained  bent  over  their 
desks.  Her  friends — and  she  had  many  — 
were  bitterly  chagrined  by  the  step  she  had  so 
innocently  taken.  Her  enemies  —  and  she 
had  a  few  —  exulted  openly  over  it.  Never 
theless,  everybody  waited  for  some  one  else  to 
utter  one  of  the  pleasantries  all  knew  were 
coming.  The  force  of  habit  was  strong, 
and  despite  themselves  the  staff  shrank  from 
speaking  to  this  convent  girl  as  they  would 
have  spoken  to  Miss  Masters.  As  she  ap- 
224 


Miss  Van  Dyke's  Best  Story 

preached  her  desk,  Miss  Van  Dyke  saw  the 
placard  hung  on  the  wall.  On  her  table 
were  bottles,  glasses,  cigarette  stumps,  and 
other  reminders  of  her  recent  experience. 
They  watched  her  look  at  these,  and  then 
brush  them  aside,  her  pale  cheeks  flushing  as 
she  caught  the  implication.  They  noticed 
her  slight  figure  straighten  as  she  read  the 
lurid  sentiment  on  the  wall.  Then  she  tore 
it  down  and  dropped  it  into  her  waste-paper 
basket,  brushing  the  debris  from  her  desk 
into  the  same  receptacle  as  she  took  her  seat. 
Several  of  the  men  who  liked  her,  and  who 
had  -  thought  that  a  little  experience  of  the 
kind  she  was  having  might  do  her  good,  now 
felt  that  the  matter  had  gone  far  enough,  and 
rose  to  speak  to  her.  They  were  interrupted 
by  conversational  pleasantries  bearing  on  the 
case  from  some  of  the  younger  men  scattered 
about  the  room.  One  of  these,  a  youth  to 
whom  Miss  Van  Dyke  had  always  objected, 
and  whom  she  had  rather  pointedly  avoided, 
sauntered  up  to  her  now  with  a  lounging 
familiarity  that  made  the  blood  of  her  cham 
pions  boil. 

"  Why  did  n't  you  take  me  with  you  last 
15  225 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

night  ? "  he  asked  in  an  easy,  off-hand  way. 
u  I  should  have  enjoyed  it  first  rate,  and  you 
could  have  shown  me  a  new  phase  of  life." 

The  others  followed  his  lead,  not  from 
cruelty,  but  because  the  situation  appealed  to 
their  peculiar  sense  of  humor. 

"Well,  we've  got  almost  as  much  of  it  as 
if  we  had  gone,"  said  one,  comfortingly. 
"Miss  Van  Dyke's  story  conducted  us  all 
through  the  gilded  haunts  of  the  Tenderloin. 
She  exhausted  the  subject,  I  tell  you,"  the 
speaker  laughed. 

One  of  the  girl's  friends  swore  softly  at 
this  and  she  heard  him.  He  would  not  have 
sworn  in  her  presence  last  week,  she  thought. 
He  seized  his  hat  and  left  the  room  precipi 
tately,  missing  the  explanation  which  she 
now  made  to  the  assembled  company. 

"  I  can't  understand  your  attitude  this 
morning,"  she  said  with  a  dignified  warmth. 
"  I  went  on  that  assignment  because  it 
seemed  to  me  a  chance  for  good  work.  The 
managing  editor  liked  the  suggestion  and  told 
me  to  carry  it  out.  I  wrote  a  faithful  report 
of  what  I  saw,  and  that  is  all  there  is  to  it." 

They  listened  quietly,  with  the  mental 
226 


Miss  Van  Dyke's   Best  Story 

reservations  of  those  who  knew  more  about 
the  subject  than  the  speaker  did.  Wheeler, 
one  of  her  friends,  came  to  her  a  little  later. 

"  I  could  have  told  you,  little  girl,"  he 
said  very  gently,  "what  a  serious  blunder 
you  were  making.  If  I  had  been  here  I 
would  most  certainly  have  warned  you  that 
night.  But  I  knew  nothing  about  it  until 
I  came  yesterday  morning  and  found  the 
office  teeming  with  the  story.  It  was  a  hor 
rible  mistake  for  you  to  make.  It 's  an  as 
signment  no  woman  should  have  taken,  and 
no  good  woman  would  have  dreamed  of 
attempting  it  —  if  she  had  realized  what  she 
was  doing,"  he  added  hastily,  as  the  girl  paled 
under  the  words.  u  I  'm  afraid  it  will  take 
you  months  to  live  it  down." 

Absurd  as  the  words  sounded,  Miss  Van 
Dyke  found  them  very  true.  As  the  weeks 
passed  she  tried  to  slip  back  into  her  quiet 
little  niche  on  the  paper,  but  they  would  not 
have  it  so.  Even  the  managing  editor  un 
consciously  added  his  share  to  her  weight  of 
woe.  He  had  highly  approved  her  Tender 
loin  story,  and  now,  from  day  to  day,  he  gave 
her  others  along  similar  lines. 
227 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

"  Give  us  something  as  good  as  that 
Tenderloin  special,  Miss  Van  Dyke,"  he 
would  say,  in  open  self-gratulation  that  she 
had  emerged  from  beneath  the  angel's  wing. 
At  each  repetition  of  the  words  the  girl's 
heart  grew  heavier. 

She  wrote  the  stories  with  photographic 
accuracy,  and  they  were  satisfactory,  although 
no  other  ever  contained  the  brilliant  work  of 
that  fatal  night.  She  never  became  recon 
ciled  to  the  fact  that  the  men  now  treated 
her  as  one  of  themselves,  with  a  good-natured 
camaraderie^  in  which,  however,  the  deference 
of  the  old  days  was  wholly  lacking.  She 
knew  that  they  called  her  "  Little  Van 
Dyke "  and  that  "  The  Tenderfoot  of  the 
Tenderloin  "  still  clung  to  her  as  a  sobriquet. 
Also  that  there  was  no  further  reference  to 
the  angel  that  guided  her  pen.  The  manag 
ing  editor's  approval  and  the  off-hand  kindli 
ness  of  her  associates  did  not  repay  her  for 
this  lack,  which  she  felt  in  every  fibre  of  her 
sensitive  nature. 

Even  the  devoted  Matthews  was  changed. 
He  was  as  respectful,  as  deferential,  as  in  the 
old  days  —  even  more  so,  as  if  he  wished  to 
228 


Miss  Van  Dyke's  Best  Story 

make  up,  by  his  personal  efforts,  for  the 
change  in  the  office  atmosphere.  But  he 
was  irritable  and  moody  and  wholly  unhappy, 
and  each  new  assignment  given  to  the  "  Little 
Tenderfoot  "  wrung  his  manly  soul.  Very 
early  in  their  acquaintance  he  had  laid  his 
heart  and  hand  at  her  feet,  and  she  had  de 
clined  both  with  gentle  firmness  and  womanly 
appreciation  of  the  honor  he  had  offered  her. 
He  had  never  mentioned  the  matter  again, 
but  she  had  felt,  until  that  eventful  night, 
that  he  remained  unchanged. 

She  was  thinking  it  all  over  one  afternoon, 
as  he  came  to  her  desk  in  the  city  room. 

"  How  much  longer  are  you  going  to  en 
dure  this  ?  "  he  asked  brusquely.  "  Do  you 
realize  that  you  're  taking  rank  on  the  paper 
with  Miss  Masters,  who  smokes  and  drinks, 
and  is  regarded  as  c  a  good  fellow '  by  the 
boys  ?  Don't  you  see  that  your  assignments 
are  getting  more  and  more  objectionable  all 
the  time  ?  Why  don't  you  chuck  it  all  ?  " 

Miss  Van  Dyke  turned  her  head  wearily. 

"  How  can  I  ?  "   she  asked  dismally.     «  I  Ve 

got  to  make  a  living  somehow.     The   way 

the  men  treat  me  is  bad  enough,  but  there  's 

229 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

another  thing  that 's  worse.  I  'm  in  the  posi 
tion  of  the  author  of  'The  Deceased  Wife's 
Sister.'  Everything  I  write  is  compared  with 
that  wretched  Tenderloin  story  and  found 
wanting.  '  Give  us  another  as  good  as  that,' 
the  editors  say,  and  when  I  turn  in  the  copy 
they  look  it  over  and  grumble,  '  Well,  this 
is  pretty  good,  but  it  is  n't  a  patch  on  your 
election  night  special.'  It 's  just  as  Mr. 
Wheeler  said  the  next  day.  I  shall  never 
live  it  down,  and  yet  I  'm  chained  here,  and 
there  's  no  chance  of  my  getting  away." 

The  tears  filled  her  eyes  as  she  spoke. 
She  openly  wiped  them  away,  glad  that  no 
one  saw  them  but  this  loyal  friend,  who  had 
been  so  faithful. 

Matthews  seized  his  opportunity,  clever 
man  that  he  was. 

"  Let  me  give  you  an  assignment,"  he  said 
earnestly.  He  leaned  over  her  desk  and  took 
from  her  little  hand  the  pen  with  which  she 
had  been  drawing  erratic  designs  on  her  desk 
blotter  as  she  spoke. 

"Drop  this,"  he  said  urgently,  his  dark 
face  flushed  with  earnestness.  "  Drop  it  for 
all  time  and  come  to  me.  Let  me  take  care 
230 


Miss  Van  Dyke's  Best  Story 

of  you  forever.  Surely  there  is  nothing  finer 
in  being  a  self-supporting  woman  than  in 
marrying  a  poor  human  being  like  me  and 
making  him  happy." 

Miss  Van  Dyke  looked  into  his  dark  eyes, 
her  own  falling  beneath  their  expression  of 
love  and  longing.  In  a  sudden  mental  illu 
mination  she  realized  why  it  had  been  so 
hard  for  her  to  bear  her  little  trials  of  the 
past  two  months  under  their  critical  but 
loving  gaze.  He  had  been  so  fine  through 
it  all.  He  had  suffered  for  her  and  with  her, 
and  it  had  been  unnecessary  pain  —  for  she 
knew  now  that  she  had  loved  him  all  along. 

His  stalwart  form  was  between  her  and 
the  desks  near  hers.  It  would  be  a  human 
bulwark  between  her  and  the  world,  as  long 
as  it  had  life  and  strength,  she  knew.  The 
career  on  which  she  had  entered  so  happily 
seemed  to  have  passed  beyond  her  control. 
Others  were  shaping  it  —  to  her  undoing. 
After  all,  a  woman's  place  is  in  a  home !  She 
put  her  hand  on  the  brown  ones  lying  near 
her,  which  promptly  caught  and  held  it  fast. 
A  careful  inspection  out  of  the  corner  of  his 
eye  showed  Matthews  that  Henderson  was 
231 


Tales  of  the  City  Room 

watching  the  little  scene  with  polite  interest. 
He  had  to  content  himself  with  a  very  tender 
pressure  of  the  hand  he  held  in  his  own. 

"I  —  I  think  I  '11  take  the  assignment," 
Miss  Van  Dyke  whispered  shyly. 

For  the  first  time  since  Tammany's  return 
to  power,  the  cloud  lifted  from  the  brow  of 
Matthews. 


232 


rrURN 


CIRCULATION  DEPARTMENT 

202  Main  Library 


)AN  PERIOD  1 
HOME  USE 

2 

3 

5 

6 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 

1 -month  loans  may  be  renewed  by  calling  642-3405 

nonth  loans  may  be  recharged  by  bringing  books  to  Circulation  De 

Renewals  and  recharges  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  due  date 

DUE   AS  STAMPED   BELOW 


tULKK  16 


MAY  2h  |gyi 

£t  CI8,    MAY  2  5 


)RM  NO.  DD  6, 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKELI 
BERKELEY,  CA   94720 


i    ~vT^| 


:im'^wmms£ 


